A dream exacerbates those feelings that neither Denmark nor Sweden wish to accept. Despite all the mistakes of the past, they still hate and love with fierce passion. One-shot and rated M for a reason.

It was raining, droplets slashing on the dark ground and stinging the skin. Denmark raised a hand to wipe away the water from his face. He was covered in dirt and was freezing cold, but he would not shiver. That would show weakness. He was dressed in trousers and a torn shirt, his hair pasted to his face. He wore no shoes and the gravel underneath his feet bit into his toes. It was as if he had been in a fight, but he had no axe in his hand. Wherever he was, there were no buildings or landmarks, only endless clouds and dirt. He felt angry, but he didn't understand why.

A figure loomed ahead, his back turned. He was tall with short hair. Denmark's anger flared when he saw the man. He clenched his fists and began to run, but found he could not catch the man. He snarled as his feet slapped the ground and the rain began to drip from his nose.

He knew this man. He recognised the strong back and the set of the shoulders. This man belonged to him. The anger continued to build in Denmark's chest. Why wasn't he here by his side? That's where he belonged, he was Denmark's bitch. And a bitch should know their place.

"Sverige!" he shouted, still running, "Get your ass back here now! Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

The figure walked away, blue coat flapping in the wind. He didn't turn to answer. Somehow he managed to walk away, despite Denmark sprinting in the rain. He snarled again and ran faster, desperate to catch the nation.

"Sverige? Sverige! I said get back here! Bitch get over here now!"

Still no answer. The man strode away, boots stomping on the ground as he faded into the distance. The rain grew heavier, slapping against Denmark's skin and leaving bruises.

"Don't fucking ignore me! Get back here now! Sverige! Sverige!"

"Sverige!" Denmark roared as he bolted up in his bed. Gasping and panting for breath, Denmark realised where he was. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his hair was stuck to his neck and forehead. He had shredded his pyjama shirt and bed sheets in his sleep, ribbons of cotton in his clenched fists. The sheets were twisted and knotted about his legs. Denmark sighed and shook his head as his heartbeat calmed. Another dream about Sweden leaving him.

"Shouting at him never worked, you know," came a familiar, deadpan voice.

Denmark raised his head to find Norway leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and his face blank. He wore his usual uniform, complete with beret and hairpin. His eyes were emotionless, yet managed to bore into Denmark's own blue orbs. Guilt and irritation bloomed in his chest.

"I know," Denmark sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What is it Nor?"

"Your meeting is in two hours. Get moving," Norway snapped before walking off.

With a sigh Denmark slowly pulled himself out of bed. He stumbled into his bathroom and leaned against the sink. He could already feel his mood turning black, his thoughts roiling and crashing within his skull. He was supposed to meet with Sweden to discuss the Oresund Bridge and other matters that Denmark didn't really care about right now.

"Fucking Sverige," Denmark spat, gripping the porcelain until his knuckles were white. He could feel the rage and hate coiling within his body. The nation still made his blood boil, even after all these years. That day when Denmark had found Sweden's room empty, he had destroyed half his house in pure unbridled anger. It hadn't been enough to quell his rage; he'd ended up destroying half his forests and several towns. All because of Sweden, because the nation didn't understand that he was Denmark's, and that was how it should have been.

Denmark snarled as he thought of Sweden. He would be playing happy families with Fin, acting like he was a gentle giant and a caring soul. Denmark knew the truth; he knew Sweden's real nature. They were fucking Vikings! They'd conquered the Northern world, raping and pillaging wherever they went. That was who Sweden really was, and he'd traded that for a boring life with Fin! But worst, he's simply left... packed his things and LEFT Denmark without a word. Denmark was the eldest brother and he told the others what to do. No one defied him, no one!

Pain flared in his fist and arm. Denmark looked up. He had punched the mirror. Glass was embedded in his knuckles and his blood dripping into the sink.

Fucking Sverige...

0o0

The sun had just begun to set as Sweden arrived home. He sighed as he closed the front door. The meeting with Denmark had devolved into a fight. Making his way into the living room, Sweden ran a hand over his face. The swelling had gone down during the drive home, but there were still scratches and he had a split lip. His hands were sore from fending off Denmark's punches, blood caked his fingernails. Sweden had sensed Denmark's bad mood when he arrived for their talk, but hadn't realised just how angry the nation was. Denmark was always unpredictable; he would never change. A reason Sweden had left him all those years ago.

Sighing, Sweden bent to pull off his boots. He sucked in a breath as pain flared in his stomach and across his back. Hanatamago suddenly appeared at his feet, sniffing his knuckles and whining. Sweden tried to give him a reassuring stroke, but he bounced away. Sweden assumed it was the smell of blood that made the animal jittery.

The sounds of Finland cleaning floated through the walls. Sweden lessened his scowl, fearful of Fin getting the wrong idea. He'd learned to keep his face clear of emotion around the small nation. He didn't want the man running away in fear. He was the only solace Sweden had.

"Su?" called Finland, poking his blond head around the kitchen door. His eyes widened at the sight of Sweden. "Oh my goodness, what happened?"

"Denmark," Sweden grumbled. He succeeded in removing his boots and slowly he took off his blue coat, wincing at the pain that flared from his arms and hands. Denmark had been exceptionally rough on his arms this time.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Fin called. As Sweden sat down on the sofa – which earned him another flare of pain from his back – Finland appeared with a small green box and bandages in his hands. Sweden went to take the box, but Finland slapped his hands away, making him wince again.

"What set him off?" Finland asked, dabbing anti-septic treatment on Sweden's knuckles. Sweden grimaced at the burning liquid, but was grateful. He didn't want the wounds to get infected.

"No idea. Was brooding all meeting then flipped."

Finland made a non-committal sound as he wrapped the bandages around Sweden's hands. "There you go." He placed a delicate kiss on the bandaged knuckles. "Don't dwell on Denmark; he can't get to you here."

"Nn," Sweden grunted. He was dwelling on it. It had plagued him for the entire journey home. It wasn't just the violence that annoyed Sweden. Denmark still thought and acted as if he had claim to Sweden and how he should act. Sweden began to grind his teeth in frustration. Denmark was arrogant, bossy, controlling and demanding... all reasons why Sweden had left. Yet Denmark still clung to the past and acted as if Sweden was in the wrong. He needed to wake up and realise they were not living in the past. Anger coiled in his stomach. What would it take to make Denmark forget the past?

"What do you want for dinner?" Fin asked, beaming his cute smile and breaking Sweden's train of thought. Normally it would work but today... Sweden needed to expel some energy. Thankfully he had a good excuse. He pushed himself off the sofa and made his way to the bedroom.

"Gym night," he called over his shoulder, searching for his sports bag. He'd take aggression out on the gym equipment rather than the trees outside. They had enough firewood to last for a year.

"Oh sorry, I forgot," Finland said still smiling. "I'll make you something small for when you get back."

"Thanks Fin," Sweden muttered. He swung his gym bag over his shoulder and headed out.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

Fucking Denmark...

0o0

Gulping down his sports drink, Sweden made his way into the locker room. It was incredibly late and the gym was due to close soon, thus Sweden had been forced to stop earlier than desired. His blue jogging pants and vest top were soaked with sweat. His face was red and a drop sweat trickled down his temples. He had undergone a brutal workout, almost breaking the rowing machine with his anger. He'd attacked the cross-trainer, the bike machine and the treadmill, but he could still feel the simmering rage from the meeting with Denmark. That man had gotten under his skin and wouldn't let go.

Sweden tossed his empty bottle in the bin. He pulled out his gym bag from the locker and placed it on the stall. Movement caught his eye. A figure stood by the lockers further down, grey jogging pants and red T-shirt. Sweden glared; anger instantly re-boiled in his chest. He should have known he would be here.

"Back for more Den?" he barked, roughly unzipping his bag.

Denmark's face was red from exertion, his right eye black and his forearms criss-crossed with cuts. He was scowling, arms crossed as he leaned against the lockers. His eyes followed Sweden as he collected his gym bag and pulled out a towel. The stalemate remained for several moments, eyes locked in combat, both daring the other to move first.

Eventually, Denmark moved closer. He wore a snarl, his fists clenched at his side. "You're a dick Sverige," he spat. He stood a pace away from Sweden.

"You're an asshole Denmark," replied, anger resurfacing.

"I hate you."

"I-"

Suddenly Sweden was pushed against the lockers, Denmark's body roughly slamming against his. Teeth clacked together, lips caught in the cross-fire. Sweden's spilt lip from earlier burst again and blood trickled into his mouth. Hands made their way under his shirt and clawed his chest, leaving deep gouges. Another hand raked through his hair, tugging painfully at his scalp. His glasses were knocked from his face and skittered away on the floor.

It took a moment for Sweden to realise what was happening. When he came to his senses, he pushed back, forcing Denmark down onto the stalls. He tore the T-shirt from Denmark's shoulders and raked his nails down his back, leaving new cuts on Denmark's already scarred back. With narrowed eyes, Denmark fought back, his hands clawing at Sweden's waist and back. In the ensuing struggle, Sweden was the victor, landing atop Denmark. Hips bucked and grinded against each other, teeth clacked together and lips locked in a passionate and violent kiss.

"I hate you Den," Sweden growled as he pulled back for air. "I hate what you do to me."

"You left me," Denmark snarled under him, his hand gripping Sweden's neck painfully.

"You were an asshole then, and you still are now."

"You never said why."

"Didn't need to."

"I hate you. I hate you so fucking much!" Denmark's fist connected with Sweden's cheek, then pulled him down by his hair for a harsh, lip-crushing kiss.

Sweden fisted Denmark's hair and yanked him to the side, exposing his neck. He sank his teeth into the soft skin, leaving red and purple marks in his wake. Denmark moaned and wrapped his legs around Sweden's waist, pulling his T-shirt into pieces and throwing the fabric to the floor. In response Sweden tugged down Denmark's jogging pants with his free hand, leaving them at mid-thigh. Denmark copied his actions and yanked down Sweden's pants and underwear with urgency. Without preparation or warning, Sweden forced himself inside. Denmark cried out at the intrusion, his legs clenching around Sweden's waist and his eyes squeezing shut.

A moment passed and neither nation moved. With narrowed eyes, Sweden began to rock his hips, gritting his teeth at the tightness. The pain only made Denmark's fervour grow; he bit down on Sweden's shoulder, drawing blood that dripped down his chin.

Nails scratched and left deep gouges over white skin. Teeth snapped and drew blood. Sweat trickled into open wounds, stinging and burning. Ragged gasps and cries echoed throughout the room. It was rough and uncaring. It fed the raging fires within their souls. It was exactly what they craved.

"I hate that I can't forget you," Denmark growled, his hips snapping up to meet Sweden's thrusts.

"I hate that I still bear the scars from you," Sweden answered, pumping his hips faster.

"I hate that you chose Fin over me."

"I hate what you made me."

Underneath the anger, the insults and the disdain, neither nation could deny they wanted this type of connection. Years of history together, as Vikings, empires and enemies... to be so close, but so far apart, it hurt. The aching want and need was still there after all years of enforced separation, no matter how hard they tried to ignore or forget. Something deep inside always pulled them back to each other, something lodged in their chests that flared when they were together and ached when they were distant. It could be beautiful, it could be love...

But it was marred by bitterness and pride.

"I own you Sve," Denmark breathed, clutching Sweden's back and shoulders painfully. "Whether you like it or not, there's a piece of you that Fin will never understand. You'll never be free of me Sve."

"And you'll never be able to let go of me, even though I don't need you," Sweden gasped, nails digging into Denmark's hip.

Their free hands interlocked as the pressure built until Sweden came with a loud grunt. Demark snaked a hand between their bodies, roughly stroking himself to completion. When it was over, they lay entwined against the wooden stall panting for air, the anger and lust sated but not completely satisfied. Sweden stood, wiping the blood and sweat from his face. Denmark rose slowly and tugged on a jacket from a nearby peg, hiding his torn shirt. He ran a hand through his messed hair. Regret, resentment and longing hung thick in the air, emotions that neither nation would dare to admit.

"How many times has it been Den?" Sweden grunted as he pulled on a clean jumper over his shredded chest. He found his glasses and pushed them into their proper place. "How many times are you going to follow me here and try to win me back?"

"Until it works," Denmark called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"You know that will never happen."

"...see you next week."

"...sure."