So, yes. Mini Fic. That I did a while ago. But yes. This was a prompt idea given to me by the ever lovely, Czytacz. It was to be written about Tino's first day at work on a Northern Oil platform. It was an interesting request and I thank Czytacz for giving it to me. So yes, enjoy this itty bitty tiny bit of writing.
….
His fingers were copper crushed with obsidian, that was the only way, the only colors that could describe it - the color.
Copper and red, yellow and gold from the cold that just kept gnawing at his flesh, that kept sun-burning his skin a burnt crimson from the sea sky even though they were well into the depths of a ruthless spring. A cold March where one could barely even see the sky beyond the chasm of the clouds and ocean.
Obsidian and black, runny and metallic from the oil that dipped his fingers ebony. No matter how hard he scrubbed, his fingers still reeked of the mixture, of the black gold that they were harvesting, transporting, watching over like the most precious of diamond mines glowing and glistening under the deep blue of the oceans depths.
All these colors surrounded Berwald, the yellow, orange, and black of their vests that glowed steady neon when a light was flashed upon them, the foam crisping a dull white as it lapped at the Northern Seal oil platform, and the hazy grey from the fog that swooped about them like a gulls fading feathers wrapped tight against the wind.
All those colors and yet he could only focus on one, pick one shade out of the whole lot that smelled like sea water, nylon and the death of the ocean as they gutted it's sand and rock.
Violet.
A rare color aboard the thin stretch of the platform, a strange mixture of blue from the sea, white from the sky, grey from the cement, black from the oil and red from Berwald's cold numb copper fingers.
It was a subtle color, soft and grace-like, but it burned. Oh how it burned.
It burned like a match consuming oil, setting fire to the sea, and creating a warmth inside Berwald that he desperately needed.
The color belonged to a man, a man of small stature but of stubborn mind. A man who Berwald had only known more than what could be said of six hours - from the moment they boarded the sticky salty platform from the choppy waters to the minute they shook copper and obsidian hands gloved in leather and nylon.
Berwald had found him special and interesting.
From the way he managed the wrought iron cables, to the way he performed as a roughneck, complimentary to Berwald as their work was interchangeable between the two.
He handled himself well, only messing up once in two hours when he spilled just a tad of concrete over the drill - a minor mishap for the man who was as green as the hills of Norway in Spring.
But Berwald found in those quick six hours that he rather fancied the man - as the Swede had been here for six months, sleeping in the cold barracks on the platform, and he admitted to feeling lonely.
Oh yes, there was Mathias the Roustabout who managed the drilling and nightshifts mostly, and Nikolas and his brother Ice were brilliant fun at debating and flipping card games - but they never had a speck of violet about them like this man did.
Like Tino did.
And so, when the bell was tolled and the intercoms scratchy blare was heard accompanying Nikolas' orders for the nightshift to take place, the men all shuffled off the concrete platform in their rubber boots to wash up and spray themselves down before catching a bite to eat and messing around in the barracks.
That was when Berwald offered to show Tino the kitchen, the showers, the common room and his own sleeping quarters - offering the Finn a chance to room with the Swede.
The violet eyes shied for the quickest of seconds before they softened and the body they belonged to nodded and smiled.
Berwald smiled back.
…
It wasn't long before March melted into May and May burned into August and the weather got substantially better.
Oh the sea was still choppy and angry and rocky, but the sky had melted a cool blue and the air was satisfyingly hot so the men would wear overalls under their vests and hum music and shitty Norwegian pop songs and all was well.
And those violet eyes that had caught Berwald's jade ones so long ago would shine like the oil in the bay and burn like a match set alight.
But only for him, only for the Swede.
And when they shared their bed at night, hearing the shouts from the men on nightshift as they laughed and swore, hearing the drum and the hum from the machines, they would lock the door to their barrack and snuggle in close no matter how hot the weather.
And together, sharing their warmth, they would hum and sigh and kiss and embrace, their copper and obsidian fingers entertained as they whispered "I love you's" and "Your eyes are beautiful" and "Your body is so warm, so loving - you burn like oil."
Together, they burned together and they lived together on that little waste of an oil platform, the color Violet melding in with the color Jade.
…
Okay, I know nothing of Oil platforms and oil rigs so I'm sorry if there are inaccuracies. I hope you enjoy this fic my dear! Sorry the title is so weird!