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"I want you to teach me how to knit," says Prussia.

Okay, thinks Sweden, this is unexpected. This is one of the more unexpected things he's seen, and that's saying something, because Finland never made a lot of linear sense when he was living with Sweden and Sweden is still used to that. In fact of all the things that Sweden had envisioned when he heard his doorbell ring on a Sunday afternoon, this was not an option he could have possibly conceived.

"Why?" he asks, his voice gruffer than he'd like from the disuse. Come to think of it, it is the first time he's spoken all week. He talks sometimes to the dog, but the dog doesn't talk back. And who else is there to talk to when he isn't called in to work more than once a month?

"Does it matter?" Prussia stands expectant, his hands on his hips. "You gonna teach me or not, big guy? I know you know." And he elbows his way past Sweden into his house. This is an impressive feat given that Sweden makes a better door than a window and Prussia is not exactly tiny himself, yet manages to be nonetheless nimble.

Well, Sweden's not really got anything on his plate except maybe walking the dog or getting a head start on his taxes maybe or fiddling about with the wood lathe, some other somewhat pathetic lonerish sort of thing, if he's being honest with himself, and that's what shock does to him, it makes him honest. So he says, "'Kay."

Prussia pauses as he's kicking his snow-tipped boots off without unlacing them. "Wait, really? That easy?" He snorts. "Huh."

Sweden's mouth twists. "Y'wanna learn or not? 'Cos if y'do, th' words yer lookin' fer are 'thanks, Sweden, that's nice'f ya'."

"Thank you Sweden," says Prussia, batting his long sugardust eyelashes, sweet as stollen - as pretty a picture, Sweden is not convinced it's genuine - "that's nice of you."


Sweden has yet to determine why Prussia's learning to knit. Is it intended to mellow him out? Was this a suggestion of Germany's? Was it a dare by France? Is it some kind of practical joke on Sweden, is he being set up by Denmark?

But to all of those questions, Prussia merely shrugs. "Just wanted to learn," he says. "Never learnt these lady-crafts in the army!"

Typical. "You bought th' needles an' that's yer yarn in th' bag," argues Sweden. "So sounds ta me like it's yer craft, not a lady's." Because credit to Prussia, he did come prepared with ten balls of red acrylic, a further one each white, black and green, and a few pairs of needles, still in the packaging. Someone must have helped him out at the shop. Sweden pities the poor soul who did. What is he trying to knit with all that wool, a blanket?

"Yeah, only masculine things in the regiments," continues Prussia. As though Sweden's said nothing! He helps himself to Sweden's couch and flops down, man-spreading across a full cushion next to Sweden, before he drops his arm along the back of the couch, around Sweden's shoulders. Sweden glares. He can smell Prussia from here. Nothing unpleasant, just - spice deodorant and musk. Overbearing. Close. "Just men being men! Good old... man time!"

Sweden glares. "Knot yer damn wool like so," he says. "Get busy."

"If you're thinking I'll be too busy to talk, you can think again." But he does get to work.

"One can only hope," Sweden mutters.

Ordinarily Sweden has a lot more patience. After all, he's had a long life and a lot of time to cultivate it and plenty of reason, too, because Denmark tried it daily. (And so did Finland, if he's being honest with himself.) His old tricks to keep his blood pressure down and his head cool and his voice calm despite his annoyance don't seem to work anymore - or, well, they do, but he'll still snark something out in reply. He's never had such a loose hold on his tongue before.

He wonders what would've happened if he'd been like this back then with Denmark, whether or not Denmark might've gotten the message, and taken note of Sweden's disgruntlement. Maybe it would've cracked the union earlier. Maybe it would've happened later, because Denmark would've wised up and changed his ways. Maybe not. It's all water under the bridge, because back then Sweden was quiet about his ire until he really could take no more and it blew up.

Prussia and Denmark are a lot alike - the patience-needing sort - so Sweden can't help making comparisons. But the glaring difference is that Sweden's got no way to hold onto his temper with Prussia - or maybe that's just his ways in his old age, now - and talks back.

To be fair, it's kind of fun. And it's not like Prussia ever minds. In fact, it seems to roll right off him and he laughs a bigger laugh than his usual weird rasp-hiss of derision, good-natured and merry. Sweden's biting remarks appear to amuse him.

Maybe that's why Prussia's been hanging around so much lately. While it hasn't been exactly annoying, it is a little perplexing. Sweden ordinarily gets along a lot better with Germany. They're more alike. Strong, silent, don't really have much eye contact. There was a system there, it worked, it was good. It was familiar and Sweden had gotten used to it and that was good. Germany was dependent and reliable and that was very good. But Prussia plows straight through it and his antics remind Sweden of why he sour-graped his weakening hold over Pomerania three centuries ago - good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.

Maybe it's a new tactic the Chancellor is trying. Manage European affairs by strategic placement of the German brothers. Or maybe Germany's needed elsewhere and Prussia's the backup because no matter how much he screws up, German-Swedish relations are pretty safe.

Who knows, not Sweden. It's a dumb idea, if you ask Sweden, which nobody did.

"Not like that," Sweden interrupts his own thoughts. "Like this."

"Well, you're going too fast!" complains Prussia.

Sweden rolls his eyes, not for the first time today, nor likely the last, and sets his stitches down. He plucks the needles out of Prussia's smooth, cool hands and casts on a few more stitches. "Round th' thumb, tuck this under, loop 'round, throw th' low'r loop over, pull. Think y'can manage that?"

"Mm-hmm," says Prussia. And then he takes the piece back and does, a bit imperfectly with the tension, but nevertheless the stitch is there.

Most of the time Sweden wants to tear his hair out in frustration because Prussia reminds him a lot of Denmark - abrasive, intrusive. Loud. Annoying. Doesn't listen to Sweden. Every trait that ever made Sweden want to punch Denmark, Prussia also appears to possess. And there's more. Neither Prussia nor Germany agree that nuclear energy is safe, which in Sweden's mind is dumb, but Germany's a lot more diplomatic about his disagreement. Prussia makes off-colour jokes before reminding him there's still a Stasi file with Sweden's name on it. He seems almost gleeful to say so, adding that there's no point in covering up and he wants to create a dialogue about it.

Sweden can think of a million better things to have a dialogue about. (Well, actually, no, he can't. He's never been much on conversation.)

But sometimes he thinks, maybe Prussia's really not such a bad guy. It wasn't Germany who met Sweden's royal family at their most recent official visit, and it turned out Prussia can be genteel when he wants to be. Surprise of surprises. But then, who should be surprised that Prussia's still a monarchist at heart.

Any one particular day is something of a toss-up. Sweden may as well flip a krone - heads, he could almost get to like the guy; tails, he'll want to shoot himself, or Prussia, or both and not necessarily in that order.

Today feels like a tails-day, because Prussia is now holding the knitting needles like chopsticks and pretending to eat yarn-noodles. "Vietnam taught me to do this in the eighties!" he says. "Think I'm finally getting the hang of it."

"Can y'mebbe not?" grumbles Sweden. He yanks his yarn out of Prussia's grip.

"Well, maybe you should have another colour to knit with than beige or white," chirps Prussia, undeterred. "You look better in colours! Like this red here is nice." Prussia lifts his ball of wool to Sweden's jawline and holds it there, presumably for comparison, the backs of his long fingers resting on Sweden's cheek.

A warm flush creeps up the back of Sweden's neck which he steadfastly ignores. "C'mon," he says instead. "This is knit," he demonstrates the stitch, as Prussia watches, rapt, "an' this is purl. Y'see?" He does them slower. "Keep doin' two'f each 'til yer fingers fall off, ya might have an inch'f ribbing."

Prussia leans in. "Huh," he says, peering over Sweden's shoulder. "Do that last bit again?"

Their sides are uncomfortably glued together. "Y'can see from where y'were," Sweden says archly.

"Can not," Prussia replies. "Don't have my glasses."

He's only been wearing those for a few decades. He has gained no possible land in that time, so what could they represent? "There's no way y'really need those," says Sweden.

"Do so," he says, pouting. He snuggles in closer. "Geez, you're warm. All that nuclear energy. Said it wouldn't be good for you! We'll be calling you Mister Chernobyl next." Prussia cackles a laugh.

Sweden doesn't join in. "Y'don't like it, think you'll find there's another two couch cushions y'could sit on." Prussia doesn't need to be right next to him.

"Nah," says Prussia. He lays his head on Sweden's shoulder. "I'm good where I am. Real cozy." Sweden glares, but Prussia's apparently too blind to notice.


To say that they knit quietly would be a lie, because Prussia breaks the blessed silence often with his little remarks and Sweden retorts punctures of barbs of his own. Nevertheless it grows into something tranquil. Prussia does mellow - whether he knows it or not - after about an hour of steady work.

After hour two, Sweden's surprised to find he isn't losing patience. "How much're ya gonna knit there?" he asks.

"Enough for a sleeve," says Prussia. "Hey, it's actually looking like something!"

Sure, because a knitted rib makes a good cuff. "Didn't think y'd start with a sweater," says Sweden. "Don't bite off more'n you can chew. Just make a blanket."

"Pfft," says Prussia. "Blankets are boring. I want something you can wear!" He coughs. "I mean I could wear. One could wear it, not necessarily either of us, some unidentified person."

"Mm-hmm," says Sweden, paying little mind to Prussia's babble.

"But, if it will be large enough to fit comfortably over shirtsleeves..." Prussia holds up the cuff and takes a few measurements, turning Sweden's hand this way and that, his fingertips lingering on the sensitive insides of Sweden's wrist and forearm. "I think it's large enough," he decides.

"Good, y'don't want t'have t'yank it out and restart," Sweden replies stiffly, as replacement for what he wants to say which is 'why must you touch me so liberally'.

Prussia looks up and smiles. "Thanks," he says, soft and sweet, and this one is definitely genuine, so Sweden blushes.

They return to their knitting.


"How do I get it to do the little v's? It's only making u's," asks Prussia.

By now, Prussia has about seven inches of ribbing, which would have made a good cuff after about a single inch but now will trail up almost all the way to the elbow. It's also being knit flat, so he'll have to seam it all together in the end. He's gotten lucky with ribbing, which is stretchy, but the garter stitch that he's been doing is tighter. He'll have to show Prussia to increase soon or it won't fit his forearms.

"Y'have to purl the backside," Sweden explains.

"You said I only needed to memorise knit!"

"If y'want something that looks like this, sure. But if y'want stock'nette then knit here, flip it, an' purl yer way back." Prussia looks crestfallen. "Want me t' fix it?" Sweden asks.

"No," says Prussia. He takes the needles back. "It'll be... it'll be a design feature. Yeah! That's it."

Sweden snorts. "'Kay," he says.

"Laugh all you want, it's gonna be awesome."

Three inches later, it's not awesome. Prussia's tension on the purl side is bad enough that it affects his typically neat stitches on the knit side, and that says nothing for the edges. But those can be hidden with a good seam, which can't be said for the three mysterious rows of inexplicable garter stitch.

Next, Sweden shows him how to increase the number of stitches by one, and advises him to do it in pairs, on either side of the piece so that it's close to the seams, where nobody will notice the strange-looking stitch, because Prussia isn't too good at knitting into the stitch twice. He keeps dropping it and not picking it up correctly. This is probably something Sweden should stop and teach him but it's Prussia's own fault for only half-listening to his instructions.

Sweden doesn't look over again until a few minutes have passed. Four more rows, and Prussia seems to have practiced his new stitch a few too many times because the piece's width has ballooned out.

"Don't do it ev'ry row. That's too many increases," says Sweden. "It'll be too big."

"It'll be just fine! You didn't really measure me too well," says Prussia.

Sweden cocks an eyebrow. He wraps a length of yarn around the thickest part of Prussia's left biceps and, placing the yarn flat against his work, shows him the difference in what he needs and what he actually has. It's like a thumb and a half on either side.

"H-hey, I wasn't prepared!" says Prussia, flustered.

"Whut's there t'be prepared fer, I barely touched ya," says Sweden. "Y'don't mind, do ya?"

"Ahm, well, here - lemme flex, then you can measure my manly guns of steel!"

"Fer yer hand-knit sweater?"

"The guns of steel have to stay warm," Prussia explains.


It is an outright lie to say that he does the other sleeve exactly the same as the first. This one has more or less the same amount of ribbing, but Prussia has gotten the hang of stockinette stitch by now and so forgets about the mystery elbow garter round.

"My design feature is only for one arm," explains Prussia. "It's asymmetrical. Very chic. All the cool kids are doing it." Sweden snorts. "And manly men like me pay attention to fashion trends," he hastens to add.

Prussia almost manages to say it without cracking a smile but one tugs away at the corners of his thin lips and Sweden nearly bursts out into laughter, watching Prussia fight to maintain his composure and pride.

He also has forgotten exactly where the increases went and how many there were, so he just adds a bunch wherever he feels like it. Both of these sleeves will look really poofy and voluminous.

"Well, 's not too late t' knit yerself a renaissance doublet, says Sweden, deadpan, and this is where Prussia loses it and collapses into giggles.

When the time comes for it later, Sweden takes pity on him and shows him how to knit in the round for the main body of the sweater. Prussia spends a good long time measuring Sweden about the midsection.

"You know, you could just do this on yourself and add a few inches," Sweden says.

"Nah. This is easier," says Prussia. From the way he's sitting he says it directly in Sweden's ear, low and quiet, as his warm arms wrap around Sweden's midsection. Sweden holds his breath.

So that Prussia can get a better measurement.

It'll be still pretty tight on him. "You should probably increase," says Sweden.

But Prussia's constantly eyeing Sweden's belly. "I think it'll be okay," he says. "I don't want it to look baggy."

"No, that's th' sleeves' job," retorts Sweden. Prussia grins.


So the decreases and shaping are ... non existent, basically, and once Prussia gets up to the armholes he has to stop.

(Actually, he makes it to a few inches past where the armholes should properly be before Sweden reminds him to stop, unless he wants to make a dress, which judging from Prussia's expression crosses his mind for about half a second, and because of that, crosses Sweden's mind for about half a second. Prussia could probably pull it off, with his hips. But Sweden's not going to bother teaching him how to rip stitches out and put them back on again, lest Prussia get the brilliant idea to try and redo all of his mistakes, of which there are now myriad. This sweater will simply have to extend halfway past his rear. It'll look ridiculous, but let's call it a design feature.

Actually, Prussia could probably pull that off too, with his hips, and besides, the glutes of steel probably also have to stay warm. Sweden should stop thinking about Prussia's physique.)

Prussia has no idea what to do for armholes. "Easiest thing's to put half on waste thread or a spare needle, an' continue like y'were doin' flat," he advises.

"But shouldn't I try and make it - I dunno, arm-shaped?" asks Prussia.

"It's a sweater," says Sweden. "Th' first thing y'ever knit in yer life an' you wanted t' knit a sweater. That's one'f th' harder things t'knit. Christ, y'coulda mebbe started with a pair'f socks."

"Socks aren't an option," mutters Prussia.

"What's that?"

"I said, socks aren't as awesome!" he repeats, with false mirth.

That's not what he said, but Sweden's not going to get into it now. "Just use this as practice, 'kay? It doesn't have to be perfect."

"Yes it does," says Prussia quietly. His tone of voice is softer than Sweden often hears it, and when Sweden peeks out of the corner of his eyes so Prussia doesn't know he's being looked at, he looks dismayed. This is how Sweden knows he's being serious. Sweden hasn't learnt much about Prussia over the years - because he spends so much time being a bombastic imbecile that nobody can properly gauge his character - but Sweden has learnt this.

"Hmph," says Sweden. "Well, Christmas's comin' up. 'S it fer someone special, then?" Probably Germany, he decides. Germany and Sweden are similar-sized. That explains a few things.

"Yeah. You could say that," murmurs Prussia. But then he straightens and says, "Maybe I'll snag myself a boyfriend with this girly gift! Ha ha!" He grins wide and toothy, his mask once more firmly in place.

What a shame, thinks Sweden. He could rather like the man lurking behind it.


Putting the sweater together is another battle, but Prussia turns out to be far better with a single needle than he is a pair of them. Only after the thing is put together and all that needs to be done is weave in the ends does Prussia say, "So... when do I add the pattern?"

"Yer kiddin'," says Sweden.

"Can't I still do it?"

Sure, but, "Woulda been much easier t'do b'fore we stitched it together."

"Oops," says Prussia sweetly. "But, c'mon, you've got to admit, it's not a very interesting sweater without something on it! You wouldn't wear something so plain. I mean, if it were for you, which it isn't, because it's for me." He coughs. "Well, I would want a pattern on it."

So Sweden hands back the needle and thread and explains that he can just stitch the colour on how he likes. He shows Prussia how to do it so that it looks like it was knitted in. "Just follow th' lay of th' stitches, an' th' colour'll set atop." Cheap colourwork trick.

Except that Prussia forgets this almost immediately and it looks more like embroidery because the stitches go everywhere. Now, to his credit, they are neat and the pattern (a snow-tipped evergreen tree) is surprisingly well-defined. Prussia laughs nervously as he says it's the first time he's ever done something like this because needlework just isn't manly or awesome. Sweden remains unconvinced.

It's just that it looks like embroidery done in yarn on top of a knitted sweater with weird poufy sleeves which is too long and has cuffs that extend up to the elbows like some kind of weird freak knitted gauntlets.

They weave in the ends and block the damn thing.


Two days later, it's got a bit more shape, but it's still the ugliest sweater Sweden's ever seen in his life.

Prussia seems pretty happy and proud of himself. Sweden watches him finger the finished product, with fondness and a soft, dimpled smile he's only seen Prussia give once before - to Germany.

"Well, yer done," says Sweden, trying to quell his uncomfortable feelings, because this shy, genuine pride is so much more handsome on Prussia than his ordinary loud version. "Now you'll leave?"

It has been three straight weeks, after all.

Time doesn't run linearly for people like them, and when Prussia had come over, well, there wasn't anything Sweden was doing. No deadlines. No meetings. That's what Sweden's got a government for. Not even any chores. Plenty of food in the fridge.

The coffee table is in front of the couch where they sit and have sat for just about all of the past three weeks except when walking the dog or napping (even sometimes while napping, because Prussia more than once fell asleep on Sweden's shoulder and ended up with his face in Sweden's lap, and Sweden really ought to have pushed him off, and still can't explain why he didn't).

Upon the table, amid the tiled relief of old coffee mugs (all of the mugs Sweden owns, in fact, and that is a lot because Ikea comes out with a new Winter pattern every year and you just have to collect these things preferably in sets of four because what are you going to do, not match? That's heresy) is a multitude of little snips of wool here and there.

No, it's not unlike their folk to just lose track of time like this. In Prussia's case Sweden imagines that it happens particularly often. But he's lying if he says he's busy simply because he's still a nation. They only give him work if he requests it. Unless you try and insert yourself in, like Germany does. And that's why he was prepared to do next year's taxes in December or start a new woodworking project or -

- or help Prussia knit himself a sweater, apparently.

Which Prussia folds and deposits on Sweden's lap.

"Here," he says quietly. "It was for you all along."

Allow Sweden to remind himself that this is the ugliest sweater in existence.

"Don't look so surprised! You're a clever guy, I'm sure you guessed."

And yet, he finds this incredibly touching. This ugly, awful thing, which no human should wear, but which someone spent hundreds of hours on, and it's for him.

Prussia takes a deep breath, exhales it in a quick puff of air and says, "Now that's done and over with."

Sweden blinks. "I'm not gettin' it," he says. "What's over an' done with?"

"Well, the curse!" says Prussia.

Sweden looks at the sweater in his lap as though it's on fire. "What - curse?" he asks. (You don't live with Norway and take these things lightly.)

"England said that there was a curse about knitting someone you loved a sweater, and that by the time you finished the sweater you wouldn't even like them anymore and the relationship'd be over, so now it's over. But to be honest with you I'm really waiting for that first part to kick in because I don't feel any different yet." Prussia taps his chin, thinking. "I dunno. Was I supposed to call him? Maybe he was supposed to do something. Some kinda ritual. I don't exactly get it, but - l-look, bear with me here, I'll fix this -" Prussia fishes out his cell phone from the back pocket of his pants.

"Fix - what?" Sweden is missing a lot from this conversation.

"Well, this whole. Thing," says Prussia, gesturing between them.

"What thing," says Sweden.

"You can't tell me you didn't notice - wow, okay so I guess you didn't notice. Really? Not at all? Thought you'd be onto me by now. I mean, I don't have to do anything with policy or work anymore, obviously, I could just sit at home in Germany's basement like a loser and let him do everything, but I figured then I had even less chance."

Well, he'd figured right.

"So I started taking on more responsbilities, but to keep it quiet, not just you but a few others - people I don't really have much in common with, people who wouldn't fall in love with me - I know, who could resist! - people who I couldn't piss off too terribly or if I did, it wouldn't cause a geopolitical incident - Germany's such a stick in the mud!"

"An' what's the intersection 'f those groups?" asks Sweden, eyebrow raised.

"Surprisingly few countries!" Unsurprising. "Because people might not be able to resist me!" Prussia says, haughty. Sweden snorts. "Well, except you," he adds bitterly. "That was clear."

Prussia's face falls. "Look, I'm well aware you don't return my feelings," he murmurs. "A-and that's just - that's fine, really! Because you know, it's not like it's all been a walk in the park, right? Most people're still mad at me, for this century. But we have a subtler, more complicated history. It's for my own good in the end, I'm better off being alone anyway. In fact I love being alone! Ha ha! And it's not awesome to have your feelings unreturned. Makes you feel like a loser."

"I know th' feelin'," says Sweden.

"So I asked around for some help to maybe do something about it and nobody had any really great ideas 'cept England, who told me about this curse, but he doesn't knit. So I thought up the brilliant idea of getting you to teach me to knit. It was either you or Latvia. I'm not taking lessons from a teenager! Besides, he probably likes me! I don't want to lead the poor kid on. But I didn't want you to think it was super girly, to knit something."

"I've lit'rally never thought this," says Sweden drily.

"Anyway, it'll be fixed soon, so it really doesn't matter how I felt about you." He finds England in his contacts and holds the phone up to his ear. "And you don't have to be mad that it'll be awkward, 'cause the awesome me will fix all of it. I'm the best at fixing things!"

"I'm not mad," says Sweden, "this's just my face -"

"- when you're confused, I know, you've told me. It's all gonna be over in a sec, just watch." England picks up. "Hey! Yeah, it's me, so about that boyfriend sweater curse you mentioned, supposing that someone hypothetically now has a sweater - a hypothetical one -"

Oh, that curse.

Sweden puts it together lightning quick. He reaches over and takes the phone out of Prussia's hand, just as England begins shouting his ear off (it's four in the morning - neither of them have realised this). Sweden hangs up, and then perhaps against his better judgment turns the phone off.

"That's not what th' curse means," he says.

"What d'you mean? England didn't lie to me, did he?"

"Not exactly," says Sweden. He explains. "Guess y'know by now how much work makin' a sweater takes. Y' put in a certain amount'f effort, y' wanna make sure that the other person appreciates it. An' it's a nice thing, t' do somethin' like that, but way it works out, often th' someone yer makin' it for doesn't get how much went into it, an' at th' end you give 'em this gift an' they don't appreciate it, they don't care, an' you feel like y' wasted yer damn time when you coulda done anythin' else."

But Prussia spent hundreds of hours of labour on this. Sweden knows because he sat there, watching him do it, watching the bright yarn curl around his twiggy fingers, watching Prussia's calm face painstakingly observing stitch, after stitch, after stitch - thousands of them - thinking -

Prussia's spent the last two weeks knitting on his couch thinking about him, and now Sweden's been on both sides of this equation and he already knows what the first side feels like, when you spend hours crafting something with effort and planning and nice materials and all your hard work has gone into it with every moment spent thinking about how they'll love this and at the end all they can say is "really, Su-san, it's just a bed" -

Sweden grabs Prussia's face in his hands, cradling his cheeks, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

And then, because the first one seems to have shocked the hell out of Prussia so badly he hardly registers it, Sweden does it again.

When at last they come up for air, he asks, "This really fer me?"

"Yeah," Prussia breathes. He clears his throat, blinks, and tries that again. "Uh - yeah, it is. If it even fits. It's ... not that great."

"It's awesome," lies Sweden.



"What in tarnation is that?" asks Norway in the elevator.

"Christmas sweater," says Sweden. "'S Christmas, check yer calendar."

Sweden's worked out by now why he's become more snarky. It's because Prussia's mouthiness is contagious, and now that they've been spending a lot more time together, the effect lasts that much longer.

Norway rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. You always wear a tie to these meetings."

"I've a tie on," he insists.

"Underneath that ungodly monstrosity, maybe," says Norway. "You make that when you were drunk? You could always fix it."

"I'm not changin' one stitch," says Sweden. "Someone special made it fer me. When's th' last time someone knit you a sweater?"

That shuts Norway up.)