Peter has never been so light headed in his life.
He can't remember the last time he's had something to eat or drink. The last can of soup had been shared with Denmark shortly after entering Poland and the water had run out just after, making it days since he's had anything but emotional turmoil and physical exhaustion. Walking and crying do nothing to recharge the body and when he is suddenly flung from his feet and into the air, everything blurs together and spins in a whirl of dim colors, gray and olive green, and he is dizzy enough that he thinks he might float away. But he has arms around him. Familiar arms, warm arms, arms that belong to Sweden and he's hugging him so tight that the chances of slipping free are impossible. His coat is scratchy and smells like smoke, his hands big and too rough and all over Peter's shoulders and back, digging into his coat and hauling him unbearably closer. He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here.
"Papa!" He sobs. Over and over, like it's the only word he knows.
There is another crash from behind him and a second pair of arms comes flinging around his sides, paired with a loud cry and a face pressed to the crook of his neck.
"Peter!"
Finland. Finland is here too. He wants to spin around to see him, but he can't bring himself to let go of Berwald long enough to do so and just lets himself go limp, collapsing into them both and losing the last hope of coherency in another rush of tears. He's vaguely aware of other voices from somewhere behind him, but what they might be saying is entirely alien to him, and he can only assume it must be Norway and Iceland.
They're here. They're really here.
Sweden's arm shifts and slips up under his knees, pulling him up and cradling him to his chest as he steps quickly out of the center of the room, not even jostling Peter with how gentle he is being with his movements. Hurried footfalls trail behind him and he sits down on one of the cots on the wall, yanking a blanket around Peter's back and wrapping his trembling frame up in it before pulling him close again. He isn't that cold; it's stuffy in the bunker and his whole body feels too hot buried under the layers of covers and jackets and arms, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot stop shaking. He just keeps going, coughing out Berwald and Tino's names, trying to remember to keep breath in his lungs after each strained burst of muddled words.
They're really, really here.
He doesn't want to move- he feels too safe- but he needs confirmation. He needs to make sure that it's really them, and he pushes away from Sweden's chest with shivering arms to stare up at him through his tears, his face nearly crumpling again. It is him. He looks different, peppercorn shaped scars all up and down one side of his face and overgrown hair that falls into his eyes, but it's him. It's Sweden. It's Berwald. It's his father. He swallows and reaches a hand out to touch him and Sweden catches his wrist, fingers folding gently around him and pulling his palm to rest against his cheek, the same dark expression as he's always worn locked with Peter's watery one. His fingers brush against the rough, marred skin, across stubble and scar tissue, and he's warm.
Warm like skin should be.
Alive.
Something in his chest breaks and he dissolves into tears again, throwing himself at Berwald and clinging to his coat. "Y-you're okay!" He sobs. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay..."
Berwald presses his face into Peter's hair. "So're you," he whispers and Peter can feel something warm dripping against his ear. "So're you."
He draws back and twists around to face Finland, hands still fisted in Sweden's coat, and for a moment, they just look at each other, lips trembling and muscles wound tense like springs. Tino shouldn't be this thin, he thinks. He is supposed to be soft and warm, not so fragile and bony. He looks dirty, his face streaked with ash and his clothes stained with what might be wax, but through the grime and sharp angles, his eyes are still the same and spilling over with tears as he launches himself at Peter and sweeps him into a crushing hug. Peter buries his face in Finland's shoulder and they both tip sideways in the cot into Sweden's lap.
