Title: Hiljaisuus
Characters/pairings: Sweden/Finland
Warnings: Angst and mentions of sex. Also, human names are used.
AN: My first ever finished fanfic, and my first attempt at SuFin. I'm not entirely happy with this, it didn't turn out quite the way I wanted to but meh. If even one person likes it I'm happy. Takes place sometime around the 1700-1800, a little before the end of Swedish reign of Finland. My eternal gratefulness goes to HockPock for being my lovely beta~
Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I'm but a humble fanfictionist.
Tino can hear the footsteps on the other side of the door as he lies awake on the bed. However, he doesn't rise to greet the other man but waits, curling just a little more on himself and clutching the sheets just a little harder.
He doesn't say anything when the door opens after a few seconds (though it could've been minutes, hours even) and Berwald steps in, nor does he move when the mattress shifts under the weight of another body falling onto it. He wills himself to take slow, deep breaths, even though his heart is racing so hard he's sure it'll jump out of his chest any minute now, even though he knows Berwald doesn't buy the act no matter how much he tries. Berwald knows he's awake, he always does, but he doesn't say anything. He never does, not anymore. So he lays there, staring at the empty wall and tries to ignore the soft breathing on his neck.
The room is quiet and cold and Tino wants to turn around. He wants to turn around and snuggle into the warmth of Berwald's arms, to kiss the other man and tell him everything's okay, that he's okay, that it's not about him and they'll be back to the way they used to be before he even notices.
But that would be a lie and so he doesn't.
He wakes up in the morning to a cold winter sun on his face and cold, empty sheets at his side.
He's standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner in the dim light. The knife lays forgotten on the table though, next to the half chopped vegetables as he stares out of the window. He can just barely make out Berwald's outlines in the dark, shoveling snow only to make room for more. He doesn't know how long he's been out there, only that it was still light outside when he'd told him he'd "go out for a bit". He doesn't know how long he himself has been standing there in the window either, only that he can't seem to look away.
It's then that Berwald suddenly looks up, and even if it's dark outside Tino can feel his eyes bore right into him, as if he could see straight into his mind, his heart. And it's then that he feels something inside him break just that much more, because he knows without seeing that those eyes are filled with love and concern and worry. And that makes it so, so much more painful.
He tears his eyes from the blurry figure in the window and turns back to his cooking, and when he feels something sting behind his eyes he doesn't even try to convince himself it's because of the onions.
He loves Berwald.
He loves him more than anything in the world, he doesn't question his feelings for a fraction of a second. But inside him there's a yearning that doesn't stem from himself, from Tino. It's roots are buried deep inside Finland; his country, his people. It's a yearning for independency, equality. For freedom. It's been growing inside him for a long time, from a small nagging in the back of his mind into a terrible voice screaming inside his head, a roar that drowns everything else under until he can barely breath anymore.
He loves Berwald, and he wants to stay because with him he feels protected and happy. But it's such a foolish wish, a selfish desire that has nothing to do with the needs of his people and everything to do with his own heart.
He feels protected here, but also trapped. No matter what he tells himself, now matter how much he tries not to notice, no matter what he does, he can't stop the walls slowly closing in on him. He doesn't want to leave, but he needs to get out. He doesn't want to leave, but staying means killing himself, suffocating his instincts as a nation until the only thing that's left of him is an empty shell, a mere memory whispering in the corners of the room.
He's always known, somewhere deep within, that they're living on a borrowed time.
It doesn't make letting go any easier.
He's feigning sleep again.
Tino lays on the empty bed and stares out of the window, like the night before that. And the night before that. And the night before that. Sometimes he wonders if the times when they used to go to bed together and fall asleep in each others arms were just a dream and in reality he's always been lying on that cold bed staring at that same landscape for all these years. Sometimes he wonders if those nights they used to kiss each other goodnight, the nights filled with silent noises and warm, loving touches, were just a lie. He can't even remember how Berwald's hands felt running on his hot skin, how warm the other's body was under his fingers, what he tasted like when they swallowed each other's gasps.
It scares him more than anything, because if he can't remember then what proof does he have they ever happened at all.
The mattress sinks as Berwald lays down next to him and once again he tries not to move, not to breath too quickly when his taken over by all the feelings, love and quilt and longing turning into one terrible lump in his chest.
There's the usual silence and for a moment Tino is lulled into a feeling of relief but then Berwald shifts and suddenly there are arms around his waist and a warm body pressing against his back. He freezes completely. He doesn't know what to do. Berwald's scent fills his nostrils and his hair is tickling the back of his neck and the only thing Tino can do is bite his lip as tears well up in his eyes.
"I l've y'u, Fin."
It's only a whisper, a barely audible mumble against his neck, but still it feels like he's being slapped on the face. And it's not because of the words itself, he's heard them before, but the way he can hear all the raw emotions in Berwald's voice. The love, and the fear.
And at those words he finally falls apart. He chokes out a word, one he doesn't recognize, and starts crying, quietly at first but it grows louder until he doesn't know anything anymore. Just lays there shaking and cries into the cold sheets. He doesn't resist when Berwald lifts him up into his arms, just clutches at the other man's shirt and cries harder when warm hands circle around his back. Because he's missed this, he wants this, but he knows it will come to an end all too soon.
They stay like that until he stops crying, until his breathing comes soft and steady again. It must have been long, but Berwald keeps murmuring meaningless words into his ear and never lets go. Tino is too exhausted to say anything, and Berwald doesn't ask. Somehow Tino feels the man can understand him better than he himself.
They fall asleep like that, still wrapped around each other. And the next morning Tino wakes up to a soft breath on his face and a warm body pressed against his.
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