It was Berwald's turn to cook dinner. He settled on Tino's favourite, lihapullat. He rolled the meatballs carefully, ensuring each one was the same size and of near perfect roundness. Berwald dropped a few of them into the hot pan, jerking back when the meatballs popped and sizzled in the hot lard. Wrapping his hand in a dishtowel, he carefully took the handle of the frying pan and shook the meatballs around to evenly cook them. He frequently checked the cooking process of the meat while he made the cream sauce on the adjacent burner. He hummed absent-mindedly as he cooked, rotating cooked meatballs and raw ones through the frying pan. The smell of onions and other seasonings danced alongside the steam that wafted from the stove. The aromas tickled across Berwald's face, and he inhaled deeply, a faint smile playing across his lips. Tino was going to love this.

The Finn was lying face down in bed, wrapped in blankets. Breathing was difficult, as his face was pressed firmly in his pillow. He didn't care enough to tilt his head, even for air. He exhaled slowly, his breath warming the fabric against his face. His eyes were shut, and his mouth was dry. He tried his best to avoid the smell of dinner that had crept its way into the bedroom, but it was no use. The familiar scent of cream sauce was too heavy, pushing him deeper and deeper into the mattress. His stomach moaned, aching for a bite to eat. Tino grit his teeth, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

Berwald set the table; just the way Tino liked it. He used the light green placemats, and the sea blue napkins. He even mixed fresh lemonade, filled with several halves of the yellow fruit, and handfuls of ice. Their small IKEA table quickly filled as the Swedish man set out the serving plate, topped high with browned meatballs. Two bowls, one with cream sauce and one with mashed potatoes, stood guard on either side of the meatball plate. Berwald straightened the silverware, and gave the table one last sweeping look before rushing to the bedroom.

"Tino?" he called gently, pushing open the door. He saw the figure beneath the sheets move slightly, but it did not emerge. Berwald frowned, and called out to his wife again. This time, there was no movement.

Tino felt the mattress sink as Berwald sat down beside him. A concerned hand rested on his shoulder, and Tino shied away from the touch.

"Dinner's ready," Berwald announced, licking his lips. "I made your favourite."

Tino turned to face the Swede, his bleary eyes resting upon Berwald's deep blue ones. His forehead was creased with worry, which made him look angry. Tino swallowed hard, the full smell of dinner was now tantalizing him.

"Thank you," he offered Berwald a smile. "Let's eat." Tino rose from the bed, and moved past Berwald without another word. Berwald followed Tino's stride, watching his ghostly figure walk carefully towards the kitchen. Bile rose up in his throat as he stood up, following Tino with his eyes cast downward.

They took their places at the table without saying a word, which was not unusual. The pair liked to eat in silence, and then discuss the events of their day while they cleaned the dishes. But this silence didn't feel… right. Tino normally beamed at Berwald from across the table with crumb-covered cheeks and a sparkle in his eye. But today, Tino kept his mouth firmly shut as he placed a small portion of food on his plate. Only two meatballs. At least a quarter cup of mashed potatoes. Only one spoonful of cream sauce.

Tino hasn't been the same for a few months now. It was a gradual decline, but it was obvious from the start. His eyes were now dull, and his complexion had become nearly translucent. His hair and nails even seemed more brittle; Berwald often found clumps of his wife's hair clinging to the drain in the shower. He, being the shy introvert, never brought it up. He knew that if Tino had a problem, no matter how small, he'd come to Berwald. The Swede took care of everything from killing spiders to changing oil in the car to repainting the doors in the house. You name it, Berwald has fixed it. But for some reason, Berwald felt that whatever problem Tino had could not be fixed by him. That was a terrifying thought.

Berwald begrudgingly pulled himself out of his thoughts, trying to focus on his dinner. He ate quietly, trying to avoid clattering his cutlery on the plate. He noticed Tino cringe every time a fork scraped. Berwald barely tasted his food, chewing and swallowing with mechanical movements. After a particularly hard bite to swallow, he took a shaky sip of his lemonade before speaking.

"Are you not hungry?"

Tino jumped, and looked up at Berwald. "O-Oh, no." He frowned apologetically. "I guess I'm just not feeling well today."

Berwald nodded carefully, still holding Tino's gaze. The Finn looked away, cheeks faintly dusted with a rose blush.

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"No."

Berwald's heart sank. He licked his lips quickly before continuing.

"You should, uh… Well, you're probably hungry."

Almost as if on cue, Tino's stomach let out a guttural wail. Tino pressed his hands firmly on his abdomen, desperately trying to silence it. Berwald raised his eyebrows at Tino, who shot back a covert glare.

"I appreciate the dinner," he said quietly, rising from his seat. He carried his plate – barely touched – to the kitchen. Berwald watched him scrape his leftovers into a Tupperware container and place it in the fridge, carefully stacked onto the other four containers, stuffed with untouched meals. Tino cleaned his plate and put his dishes in the sink, aware of his husband's burning gaze, watching his every move like a cat watches a mouse. But Berwald wouldn't say anything. When he does bring up the topic, he is easily silenced.

He began his trek back to the bedroom, but stopped before his passed the table. He eyed the jug of lemonade up and down, watching drops of condensation roll down the delicate glass. He bit his lip and smiled gently at Berwald.

"Maybe a glass of lemonade will help my stomach a bit," he said with a weak chuckle. Berwald sat unmoving as Tino picked up the jug – awfully heavy, he thought – and brought it to his glass. He tilted the jug, and the lemonade rushed toward the glass with a speed Tino was unprepared for. The jug, slick with condensation, fell from his hands and clattered on the floor. Chunks of lemon and ice cubes burst from the lip of the (luckily) unbroken jug and shot across the pristine hardwood in all directions. Tino felt his eyes begin to prickle as Berwald jumped from his seat. Tino quickly ducked down under the table to retrieve the jug, trying hard to keep the tears from flowing.

"I-I'm sorry, Ber," he choked out. "It slipped, it was too heavy. I should've asked for help –"

"S'alright," Berwald said, voice dripping with undisclosed sadness. "I'll clean it up, you can go to bed."

Tino stood carefully, clutching the jug in his bony hands. Berwald avoided his eyes, unreadable emotion written across his face. Tino tried to meet Berwald's gaze, tried to search for an answer he could give. It wasn't until the Swede gave a hearty sniff that Tino felt a wave of guilt punch him in the stomach.

"Ber," was all he could say, before he set the jug down on the table with a loud clunk, and rushed to the bedroom, tears streaking down his face.