Author's note: ducere requested SuNor dorm AU continuing from « Dorm Room 213 ». And I just can't say no to her.
Human!Lukas would be so many kinds of angsty, which isn't to say Norway!Lukas isn't angsty, but it'd be a different kind. Berwald would still be Berwald though, that's what I love about him. Maybe he'd have more time for the gym. That would be nice.
Frat Boys and Portrait Backgrounds
Berwald is bi. Everyone knows Berwald is bi. He's occasionally gotten drunk and had sex with a couple of girls at school, but from those few nights the rumors spread about his size and skill and now everyone knows Berwald is bi.
Lukas, on the other hand, is gay. Vaginas make him shutter and boobs are gross and need to go away. Lukas hates when people know he's gay.
Because on nights like tonight, where Christen's decided to hang with his frat brothers and drag Berwald and Lukas to the party, all the guys know. They look at Lukas and know. They try and get Berwald to talk about women and the quiet Swede just grunts, rolling his eyes, but at least they can still talk about it. Can still attempt to have that conversation.
They can't attempt that with Lukas. They just stare at him because they don't know what gay men do, what to say; it's not as if they mean it maliciously, they just don't know. Which is how Lukas finds himself sitting out on the porch tonight, listening to a very drunk Christen sing a very bad rendition of several classic Disney songs between Gil and Marijn. It sounds even worst because they all keep slipping back to their native languages.
"Beer?" and one appears beside him, the Norwegian barely looking up to take it as Berwald sits beside him on the back step. "You know they don't–"
"I know." It's not malicious, the frat boys are just idiots. "It's not even the gay thing that bothers me."
"It's when they talk to me," the Swede finishes. "About women."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Both sipping at the bottle they fall into a comfortable silences, the sound of crashing behind them as someone yells out, "Not the beer pong table!" Beer pong, he angrily thinks, is a stupid game and not just because Christen and Berwald are better at it than Lukas is. Good riddance on the table.
Out of the blue the Swede's head rolls to the side to take him in as, in that serious voice he uses when presenting political science papers or discussing dictators from the past, he announces, "I love you." Lukas has learned that it's the voice that means there are no jokes, there is only something Berwald holds near and dear and will not have questioned.
"I know. I love you too."
"Do you want to head back?" They had walked here and though Christen had offered to let them crash at the frat house, Lukas had never really planned on doing that.
"I want to hold your hand." Without saying a word or pointing out how Lukas only makes that request when he's feeling insecure, rarely holding his hand in public, Berwald rises and holds out his own for the Norwegian to take.
"Come on before it gets too late."
The Swedish hand is so much larger than his, his fingers thicker than Lukas's thin painter ones. Berwald has a tendency of constantly moving his fingers against Lukas's hand, as if never quite comfortable, never quite satisfied, yet never taking over the grip. The Norwegian has to bend his arm to hold hands with the taller man; Berwald lets him choose how they link their fingers together as a silent kind of thank-you, a trade-off for the discomfort.
There are a couple of drunks roaming campus as they walk back to their building. Lukas tries to ignore them, thinking about Emil probably spending the night staying up in the main room at his desk to try and study some more before his big brother comes home to tell him off. Timo is probably laying in bed thinking about Berwald; Lukas sometimes wonders if the Finn ever jacks off to the thought of his boyfriend. Then again, the Finn wasn't really that sort of guy, had probably never kissed another boy. It is nice to have at least one other gay man in the dorm, Lukas thinks, even if it means he shares the title with Timo.
That's when he hears someone say it, fag, off in the distance. Berwald drops his hand to wrap an arm around his shoulders instead, pulling Lukas closer and speeding their pace up. The Swede's punched people out for that in the past and though the police might let him go once or twice, it's a habit he's had to stop. Without much more fuss they make it back to their dorm room, scuffle free.
Surprisingly Emil isn't up; Lukas hadn't realized just how late it was, having spent most of the night huffing and refusing to drink. He stalks silently to his room to strip despite the cool breeze of the night, listening for the sound of Berwald closing the door behind him. Arms encircle him once he's pulled his shirt off.
"Love you," the Swede murmurs in bad Norwegian. "Love you so much."
"Calm down, they might still hear us."
"No they won't." Lips come to his ear, a heavy, warm breath whispering, "Timo texted me that him and Emil are spending the night with Edouard. We're all alone now." The thought makes Lukas smirk.
Turning in those arms he steals Berwald's lips without care, pulling at the man's shirt as they back up towards the bed. It's been so rare for them to have a night like this, completely alone in their suite: Valentine's Day; the last day before leaving for Winter Break and Emil had insisted on staying over in Leon's room; the night Christen had decided he was going to make men out of Emil and Timo, whatever the hell that means. Nights like these have been few and far between.
He's guided backwards to the makeshift double bed, hopping onto the mattress to spread his legs and pull at Berwald's belt. When the Swede is stripped Lukas lays back so his boyfriend can remove his pants, the two left only in their briefs. The art student sighs contently.
In the morning he's sorer than normal, ass in the air as he lays haphazardly across Berwald's chest. The window is still open a crack from when, as he was being sucked off, Lukas had decided it was too hot and the Swede had to stop everything to open the window. His penis hadn't been happy with that decision but it had made the room more bearable as they moved into Round Three.
A lazy, long arm reaches down to knock at the cap of the lube bottle, rolling it towards the tarp-covered easel where he was painting his boyfriend as a nineteenth-century Swedish statesmen. Gingerly rolling off from atop him and placing his weight gently on weak legs, Lukas reaches out to pull the covering aside and take in the half-down work of art. Berwald's face and upper body are painted, the lower portion still to be done and the background… Eh. Lukas really hates backgrounds.
There's a yawn as the larger man shifts on the bed, his half-hard erection standing proudly; at this point not waking up to that poking him somewhere is what takes the Norwegian by surprise. Reaching out a hand he rubs at Berwald's lower stomach, playing with the hard lines the way he knows his boyfriend likes. The man, literally, starts to purr.
"Should we draw the shades?" the Swede inquires, gesturing to where Lukas had pulled them up to let in light. They were only on the second floor, possibly though not easily visible from the ground level.
"No, coffee."
"Is that an offer or demand?" Lukas lays back down across his boyfriend's chest, smiling mischievously as he contemplates some witty comeback.
"Depends on if you've got any tricks left to show me."
"Hmm hmm," and the man beneath him cranes his neck to steal a kiss. "Christen is probably hung over, and Timo and his friends probably kept your brother up all night."
"Then I'll get you coffee but when I get back," and Lukas taps at Berwald's chest, "I'm expecting you to impress me."
"Don't I always?"
While passing all of Saturday literally shagging each other senseless sounds wonderful Lukas knows Berwald has a paper to write, his own critiques to work on. "Stop," he moans, the man pulling him down as they finish their third cup of coffee. "We need to take a break, you're being unfair to my ass."
"You could try fucking me," Berwald offers and when Lukas looks at him, eyebrows raised, he shrugs. "That could be interesting."
"Maybe later."
Finishing the last of his little written homework due next week, Lukas quietly moves on to doodling the way his boyfriend is sitting in his chair: shoulders always straight, at attention; his back curved as he leans back before leaning forward again; the strength in his arms as he types at his computer. The Norwegian has sketchbooks filled with just Berwald.
"When you finish that," the larger man says in that deep voice of his, "can you come read over something for me?" Taking his time Lukas finishes the sketch, standing before sitting on Berwald's lap; arms wrap immediately around his waist. "I've been looking at this paper too long, it stopped making sense ages ago."
"Those normally turn out the best for you though," Lukas points out. Silence falls over them as he reads the page, leaning against Berwald's chest; neither of them have bothered to put on real clothes, Lukas in shorts and Berwald in boxers.
"Good?"
"Good."
"It's for my presentation."
"Which one?"
"The one that could land me a job." Lukas scrunches his nose up at that; he hates to think about graduating in a year's time.
"Don't say things like that."
"I need one," Berwald protests, "and a good one, somewhere you like, so I can support both of us."
Instead of asking why the Norwegian quirks an eyebrow, turning to take in the man behind him.
"You're an art major," the Swede says without amusement. "Which from my point of view may as well be code for, training to be poor with gusto. Plus you're fussy as hell which doesn't help." Lukas shrugs.
"I don't like a lot of things."
"You're high maintenance," his boyfriend corrects.
"Yeah well, you've always known that." Lips kiss the back of his shoulder.
"And I've always loved it. I want you to live comfortably, and I want to be the one providing for you." Lukas smiles, turning and wrapping his arms around Berwald's neck. "I love you Lukas, I really, truly do."
He kisses the Swede.
This time Berwald gets up from bed first, Lukas rolling to see the clock now says it's half past four in the afternoon.
"My ass feels weird," his boyfriend informs him as he comes back with two things of chocolate milk. "Does your ass always feel like this after?"
"Kind of, I'm more used to it. Plus I like it more than you do." The Swede sits on the edge of the mattress carefully, opening the two bottles; Lukas leans over to take one and drink half of it in one go. Berwald leans back on his forearms, sipping more slowly at his.
"They'll have to come back soon." He means the other three.
"If Christen isn't dead."
"Or arrested."
"Both equally plausible."
They clink bottles.
Two of the frat boys carry the Dane-in-question back an hour later, the one lifting him to put to bed. The other waits awkwardly at the door with Lukas, far more used to this than the new boy is.
"Hey," the stranger starts, catching the Norwegian's attention, "I just wanted to apologize if you felt uncomfortable when you were over–"
"Don't say anything," Lukas interrupts, annoyed. He'd all but forgotten how ridiculously like an outsider the frat boys had made him feel.
"My brother's gay," the man volunteers.
"That's nice."
"I suck at having conversations with him too, because we're just so different. Well, I used to suck at conversations with him." At that Lukas's ears perk up.
"What do you mean?"
The frat boy shrugs. "My dad's really homophobic, sent my brother to one of those camps to try and get it out of him. When it didn't work he disowned him; haven't seen my brother since. I never did know what to do for him."
Having not expected such a deep revelation Lukas leans against the frame of the door, waiting for the other stranger to return. "Listening is most important," he gives as a gem of advice gleaned from his own struggles as a teen.
"Listening," the other one repeats, his eyes still glued to the ground. "Got it, thanks." Finally the second frat boy returns and the two can leave.
Emil hides in the library until they kick him out, whispering to Berwald that he's hungry. Lukas, at his boyfriend's desk, smirks to himself as the Swede sets off to make his brother dinner. "Hey."
"Hey you. How was your night?" Emil rolls his eyes.
"Never again. How was yours?" When Lukas raises his eyebrows as if to say, do you really want to know?, Emil rescinds the question. "Never mind."
Leaning back in his chair the Norwegian makes up his mind on something. "Are you straight?"
"What ya mean?"
"Do you only like girls? Mum said you only like girls."
Emil shrugs but Lukas knows his brother has an answer. "Mum says a lot of things Lulu."
"Emil, we're blood; if you can't tell me, who else can you tell?"
The boy mutters something.
"Come again?"
"Berwald," he repeats. Lukas only nods.
"And?"
"I like both," Emil finally admits. The older brother puts a hand on the back of the younger's head before standing to hug him.
"Leon?" Lukas whispers and Berwald nods.
"Emil isn't ready for a relationship but Leon said he'd wait."
"He admitted to not being ready?" They whisper as they hide under their sheets, knowing full well that the Icelander and Timo are both at their desks in the next room over. "That's not like him."
"No, I told him he wasn't when he asked what I thought. Emil's yet to come to terms with himself and until he does, he needs to focus on who he is. When he can love himself then maybe he can try to love another." Lukas threads his fingers through Berwald's.
"How often does he ask you these things?"
"Not sure, there's no pattern to it really. I think Emil is worried is all, it's in his nature." Lukas nods. "I remember when you were trying to find yourself." The Norwegian gives a short laugh.
"Don't remind me." A large hand pushes his hair behind a Norwegian ear. "I was awful trying to come to terms with myself."
"We were fifteen, everyone is awful when they're fifteen."
"You weren't." Berwald has never been awful. Berwald has only ever been Berwald, blank face, straight glasses, quirky upturn to the corner of his mouth and slight elevation to his eyebrows when someone says something amusing or stupid or both. Berwald has always been sure of himself, Lukas in convinced.
"The only thing I have never questioned," the man whispers, bringing his face down so close that it's hard to focus on those sea green eyes though the Norwegian knows Berwald can actually see him without his glasses like this, "is you. You've been my best friend since we were nine, and you're the only one I've ever loved. I could have waited years for you to accept who you are. And you know what? One day we're going to get married and live in a big house and maybe adopt a foreign kid if the fancy strikes you and you really want, but the main thing is that we'll be together." Lukas nods.
"Thank you." Two lips kiss his nose and whether Berwald is bi or Lukas is gay or Emil is confused or Timo needs to find someone else to love or Christen needs to let his liver recover doesn't matter. In strong arms the Norwegian takes a deep breath, his eyes on the painting closing slowly. He lets the world go, imagining a dance in 1860s Stockholm, a Swedish gentleman holding him close as they move through the room.
The dream feels almost familiar.