Another minute passed.
Berwald's phone lay silent on the table as the clock struck one, on the dot.
It was late. It was really late. On any other night this year, he'd have already been asleep. But tonight was different. Or, at least, it was supposed to be.
He could hear Tino outside the door. The entrance he'd made a few minutes ago had probably alerted him that something was definitely up. He was probably acting scarier than normal. If he went outside to talk with him, he might make Tino more nervous than normal. He might make him flinch harder than normal. He might even make the Finn hate him more than he already does.
The sound of a hard swallow rung in his ears, and his eyes stung. He couldn't afford to think like that now, as true as it was. He might cry. And he could never cry.
He closed his eyes as he heard the door creak open a few inches, turning away slightly. His mouth was in a taught, firm line, turned down at the corners and trying not to quiver. "... Ah... S-Swe...?" Tino stuttered.
Berwald wondered if Tino was ever happy to address him.
"Sweden..?" Tino spoke a little louder, used his full name, perhaps honestly hoping to get an answer.
"Hm..." was all the Swede could force out.
Maybe it was when he was walking over that his heart gave out. He could hear Finland's light footsteps on the wooden floor, the light flooding in from the doorway and onto the empty side of his bed which never got used. His face had already contorted when a comforting hand came to rest upon his back, his bottom lip struggling to stay with his top one, clinging to it desperately. He wasn't sure when the first tear started pushing at his firmly squeezed-shut eyelids, or when they started to peek at the outside world.
"Swe, are you okay..?" he asked.
And Sweden lied. "M fine..."
But even as he spoke his voice wavered.
"Did... Did something happen? Did Matthias say something..?"
Matthias. What an easy word to say. Much easier than Berwald. As is Lukas. Oh, Lukas this, and Lukas that, as much as he'd heard that name all night it must be the easiest word to spit out in the world.
"No," he said firmly, and that much was true. Matthias hadn't said a damn thing. "He... said nothin..." A sharp inhale.
Tino's hand lightly rubbed on Berwald's shoulder. The tears were more apparent now, as they started to fall down the bridge of his nose. "... Did he..." Don't. "Did Matthias," Please don't say it. "... Forget..?"
The sweet voice was almost sad as he spoke. Pitying, if anything. And while Berwald was surprised by the smaller body joining him in his bed, he couldn't say anything about the matter. His shaky breath fell in and out of his lips, uselessly, and a few more tears came rushing down his face. Oh, the pain in his chest. It pulled at his quivering lips, and stung his eyes as it throbbed in his throat, making swallowing impossible and leaving normal breath far from him.
He nodded. "... M fine."
At least Tino felt pity enough to hug him. It was a bit surprising to him, that Finland had remembered his birthday and not Denmark.
Tino he could take. The man was terrified of him, and he could do nothing to change that. As beautiful as he was, as sweet, and kind, and friendly, none of that could be his own. Whether he liked it or not, he was used to it, and wouldn't have been that affected if Tino needed a reminder as to when his frightening roommate's birthday was.
The others, he could take. Lukas. Emil. He could stand them forgetting his birthday.
Because Matthias would never forget before. Even if everyone else needed reminders, if everyone else had to be told, Matthias would be there, at midnight, every year. No matter how late he was on other occasions, he was never a minute late for him tonight. The same bar. The same table. The same damn alcohol. Every year.
It was harder than he expected it to be, holding back so many noises. How long had it been since he'd last cried? Whose shoulder had he cried on the last time he did? His faltering mask hurt as tears fell over it. He couldn't tell if the skin of his cheeks was rough or soft as wet trails forged their way over them. His face was never held nor caressed nor kissed enough for him to know. Why would it need to be, anyway? He was strong enough, and tall enough, and stoic enough to never need such things.
He was forgotten, by his brother. His brother. One not related by blood but by history, and pain. Hundreds of years of being together, of war and strife and brotherhood. No matter how tortured he'd been, how much either of them betrayed the other, it never mattered. That was his brother, god dammit. More than Norway's, or Iceland's, or Finland's, he was his. He'd always forgiven him, as much as there was hate and anger. Because he was the one who never forgot him. His brother would never leave him alone again.
What of their bond now.
He felt scared, and small.
Please.
Please, I don't want to be alone again.
He'd been crying on Tino's shoulder for a while now. The littler man was probably too terrified to move. In the back of his mind he heard it, when the doorbell rang, but it didn't register until the front door opened without invitation.
His heart stopped. And immediately after it did, he cursed it. Stop hoping, he thought, It'll hurt.
And there were footsteps. Berwald scrambled for his glasses, his face already as red and worn as his throbbing heart. He had no idea how long he'd been glued to Tino's shoulder but it was certainly long enough to stain his emotionless face, scarring it enough to show his pain. His breath caught, how hard it was to breathe normally now, and he stood, turning just in time to hear the door open behind him.
There was a long pause. Tino's eyes wandered over to the doorway, before he left them. He would've thought he was alone in the room if there hadn't been a long, tall shadow cast over the bed, on the side that never got used. His fists clenched into rage, and sadness. He wanted to punch the walls, and the pillows, and the sharp jaw line of a beloved friend himself. Yet at the same time he wanted to drop down to his knees, and thank the gods, thank any and everything for something as small as the footsteps that were now approaching him.
They stopped just behind the tall, solid, emotionless figure of Sweden, which never seemed to falter. And in their place, a word was spoken; the only word that could have hoped to make anything better.
"Berwald."
AN: I don't think that I shall continue this, but perhaps I might add another chapter or so, or who knows, I might even make an entirely different fic for them. Thanks for reading!