AN: So I'm taking a break from torturing Russia to torture the Nordics. WOO. This is my first time writing any of them so forgive me (and do point it out) if they're a little OOC. Except Sweden because, well he needed to be a smidge OOC in this chapter.
I have no idea where this is going or whether it's any good so please, please, please drop me a review?
This is an edited version, to read the full version (which is only a smidge more graphic than this) hop on over to Ao3 (I'm CallicoKitten over there)
Push ✖ Matchbox Twenty
i don't know if i've ever been good enough
i'm a little bit rusty, and i think my head is caving in
i don't know if i've ever been really loved
by a hand that's touched me, and i feel like something's gonna give
and i'm a little bit angry.
"Fine," Berwald spits. "'ll sleep on t' couch!"
He has to leave before he says something he regrets.
Tino glares at him from his position on the bed. "Great, Berwald. Just avoid everything. Fucking great."
They've been arguing for days, weeks, months, over everything. Big things, little things, everything. Berwald's glad they left Peter at home with a neighbour (though he's fairly sure he'll find his way to World Conference at some point) The Fin throws a pillow at him and rolls to face the wall. "Turn the lights off when you leave." He mutters.
Berwald slams out of the bedroom and into the small living room-kitchen area, throwing the pillow down onto the couch with such force that it bounces right off again. Stupid fucking thing.
He's seething- no- he's fucking besieged with rage. This should not be happening. He and Tino are supposed to be the exception. Their official union has broken down but they're supposed to be together. It's a fucking fact. They were better than the others, more suited, perfect. This wasn't supposed to happen.
It takes him a few minutes to register the insistent knocking at the hotel door. He takes a deep breath (wipes the few angry tears from his eyes) before answering, expression stoic as usual. He's expecting Peter or maybe Iceland but instead he finds an exhausted looking Germany.
"Ja? Wh't is it?"
"Do you think you could possibly come and remove Denmark from the bar?"
Berwald blinks, "Can't ya ask Norway. Or Iceland."
"Tried them, they both slammed their doors in my face."
Berwald really doesn't want to deal with Denmark right now. Especially a drunk Denmark. He doesn't think he'll be able to resist the urge to punch him. He sighs tiredly, "C'n't he j'st sleep on th' floor?"
Germany looks almost amused. "Usually it would not be a problem, unfortunately he and England are being very loud and it's beginning to cause problems."
"So what? They're alw'ys loud."
"It's not the noise that's the problem, Berwald." Germany says pointedly.
Oh. Oh. That kind of problem. This hotel obviously isn't aware of what the Nations are. Berwald pinches the bridge of his nose. He really doesn't need this tonight. "Ja, fine. I will f'tch 'im."
Germany nods, "Danke. I need to go and fetch France to deal with England. I tried America first but he just took pictures and left giggling. Idiot."
Berwald hums in agreement, grabs the hotel keys and slams the door so Tino will know he's left. Germany continues up the corridor and Berwald watches him for a few seconds before heading down to the bar. Just grab him and dump him in his room, that's all you have to do. Ignore anything he says. Just do it and leave. When he reaches the small bar he finds it empty but for England, Prussia and Denmark. England is singing, Prussia has apparently passed out and the Dane is cackling and cheering England out. The bar staff are glaring (one is sharpening a knife and Berwald has half a mind to leave and wake up to the news of a triple stabbing)
He crosses the room and yanks Denmark off his stool to his feet, "C'me on, Mathias." He mutters.
Denmark sways for a few minutes before he grins widely, "Sverige!" He booms, "Come to join us?" England glances over and cheers and Denmark laughs again.
Berwald shoots what he hopes passes for an apologetic look at the bar staff before tightening his grip on Denmark's arm. "Nej. Time t' leave."
"Awh but Berwald! We're just gettin' started here!" The Dane slurs. "Right guys?"
"Mathias," Berwald growls. "We're leavin'. Now."
"Such a spoilsport," Denmark mutters. "Fine. I can-I can do it myself!" he shoves Berwald away and without the support stumbles a few paces before collapsing in a fit of giggles. "Rooms spinnin', Ber. Spinnin'."
With a huff of annoyance Berwald bends and pulls Denmark up roughly before bodily dragging him from the room. "Hey!" Denmark protests weakly. "Hey! Lemme go, Ber! Lemme go!"
It takes him almost twenty minutes to get to Denmark's room by which time Berwald is ready to borrow the bartender's knife. Denmark is loud, he's always been loud. He shouts for Berwald to let him go, tells Berwald he's the big brother and that he should listen to him (it sets off a chain of memories of Denmark yelling, bullying, beating, maiming, of wars and massacres and failed unions).
He hauls the Dane in to his room and throws him down on the bed.
"Sh't up, Dan." He spits, turning to go but Denmark grabs his sleeve and tugs.
"Why'd ya always leave me, Sverige? What'd I ever do to deserve this?" Denmark's voice is shaky and fuck Berwald doesn't want to deal with this today.
He yanks himself free with a growl, "Could write ya a list, Dan."
He turns but Denmark grabs him again, this time wrapping his arms around Berwald's midsection and pressing his face into Berwald's back. "No, don't, please stay, Berwald." Denmark says and the words run together like a flood. "Miss ya, miss ya so much."
Berwald clenches his fist. "Let go, Mathias."
Denmark's grip tightens, "Nej, nej det vil jeg ikke. I don't deserve this Ber, I treated you well. I was good to you and Fin." His breath hitches. "What does he have that I don't?"
The anger is thrumming through him now, hot and coursing through his veins. "'M warning you, Dan. Let go."
"Say you'll stay," Denmark sobs. "Say you'll come back. I need you. I know you need me. You'll always need me! You're mine, you're all mine."
"L'st w'rning," Berwald mutters because if he snaps he's not sure what he'll do but it won't be good. He won't be able to control it. "Let. Me. Go."
Denmark giggles high pitched (it reminds Berwald far too much of their Viking days, of he and Denmark storming countries and spattered in blood) "Not this time, Ber." He whispers, face pressed into Berwald's back.
Berwald draws his elbow back sharply, it connects with Denmark's head soundly and the country lets go with a pained yelp. Berwald spins to face him, Denmark's nose is bloody and he's blinking up at Berwald looking honestly bewildered.
Berwald grins.
It feels good to see Denmark like that.
He stomps down that thought as soon as it arises, turns away and this time makes it to the door before he's tackled by Denmark. He twists as he falls, flipping them over so he's pining the Dane beneath him, he raises his fist and just about manages to catch himself. "t' fuck, Dan?" he spits.
"You hit me!" the Dane slurs. "Shouldn't do that Sve!"
There's a flash of rage and Berwald finds himself on top of Denmark, kicking and hitting and tugging. "Fuck you!" he's screaming but he's not even sure at this point if he's angry at Denmark (he's always angry at Denmark though) or Finland or maybe just everyone and everythingand he can't stop. (Not that he wants to) To his credit, Denmark gives as good as he's given. He kicks and bites and swears like a school aged kid who's just learnt the words and it feels so damn good.
He's not sure when exactly he makes the decision to manhandle the other nation on to the bed and roughly tear his clothes off. All he does know is Denmark is just as hard as he is and maybe this is what they've needed for years. Maybe it's just because Berwald needs to destroy something and Denmark just needs something. (Berwald isn't blind, he knows how much the Dane drinks and he's noticed the lack of mirrors in his house, he remembers Iceland telling them how Denmark cried at night after they left. He knows his brother hates himself and sometimes he thinks he should do something about it but mostly he doesn't.)
"Ugh- Sve...don't- please- stop," Denmark moans-whimpers-mewls.
It registers somewhere in the back of Berwald's head that he doesn't know whether Denmark is begging him to stop or begging him not to stop. It registers somewhere that he doesn't much care because all he wants is to break something.
It's only after, when he hefts himself up and he's breathless, the he realises what he's just done, it hits him like a cold sweat. There's blood on the sheets and Denmark is small and pale and trembling and ravished on the bed. Fuck. Denmark blinks up at him hazily, Berwald can practically smell the alcohol from here (amongst the sweat and other things) Denmark is so drunk he can't possible know what...fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He yanks the Dane up roughly, a hastily constructed plan coming together in his head, and forces him into the bathroom. "What're ya doin', Sve?" Denmark slurs.
"G'tta g't ya clean," he murmers, leaning in to turn on the shower.
Denmark giggles then sways, paling instantly. "Gonna be sick," he mumbles, barely making it to the toilet before he wretches. When he's done he slips limply sideways and Berwald just manages to catch him before he hits the cold tile floor.
He is definitely too drunk to have consented.
Shit.
He manhandles the Dane into the shower and holds him up, at an arm's length, under the warm spray. He tries to avoid looking at the dot-to-dot bruises on his hips and wrists and the bite marks on his shoulder blades.
When he pulls Denmark out he slumps against him and mumbles nonsensically against his shoulder as Berwald dries both of them as best he can. Once he's done he leads him into the bedroom and pushes him towards his bed.
"D'nmark, where'd d'ya keep your pyjamas?" he asks, beginning to rummage through the Dane's speedily unpacked suitcase.
Denmark slurs something that might have been Danish or Swedish or English or a hybrid of the three for all the good it does.
"Mathias!" he snaps (and it's not anger now it's panic- it's guilt- it's concern)
Denmark raises his head, just. "Bottom drawer." He mumbles, rolling on his side and watching Berwald with unfocused blue eyes. "Whatcha doin', Ber?"
"F'ndin' ya clothes." He pulls out a t-shirt and the only pair of pyjama bottoms that don't have the Danish flag on them and throws them at Denmark who giggles as they hit him.
"Stop throwin' things!"
Shit, Berwald is so fucked.
"G't dressed, Dan." He says, bending to pick up his jeans.
Denmark does, clumsily and once he's done he looks up at Berwald. He yawns and Berwald glances at him. "Go t' sleep." He murmers, pulling on his shirt.
Maybe Denmark won't remember in the morning (Berwald's not sure if that's any better because waking up bruised and in pain probably isn't the most comforting thing after a night out). Once he's dressed he straightens and looks over at Denmark, curled up on the bed, blinking sleepily.
"Stay," he mumbles needily and it's the right thing to do (Denmark is really drunk and just because he's never heard of a Nation choking to death on his own vomit doesn't mean it can't happen) but he can't. He needs Tino. He needs to be near Tino.
"Night, Dan." He mumbles as he pushes out of Denmark's room, he thinks he hears a sleepy protest but he doesn't pause to listen.
When he gets back to his hotel room he's barely holding himself together. He cracks the door to the bedroom open slowly and when there's no response he sneaks in and curls up, fully clothed, on top of the covers.
Tino is bright and soft and beautiful in his sleep (well, always but in his sleep he's so relaxed) Berwald wants nothing more than to drown in him and forget about what just happened with Denmark but he doesn't want to wake him. How can he? He settles for gently brushing the sleeping Finn's hair back and placing a chaste kiss on his forehead (he can still taste Denmark, can still hear, feel, smell, Denmark)
He closes his eyes tightly and wishes for oblivion.
