Undisclosed Desires, a Sweden/Prussia fic
by taivaspoika
Rated M/15+
--
Berwald doesn't know why attends the after-summit parties. To socialize? To have a drink with friends? No. Those are things he could do anytime he wanted to. He attends the parties because he feels like he should. Everyone else is there, too.
...but that's not the only reason. Berwald enjoys, no, he loves, observing people and their behaviour.
The party is, in many ways, just simple relaxation. Sometimes, though, there is a little more serious aspect to be noticed. In a way, the party is a straight continuation to the summit. Here they discuss their own views on world politics and their opinions in matters on hand over a pint of beer or a cocktail.
However, Berwald has noticed that these more serious topics are often hidden underneath friendly chatter, cleverly disguised as meaningless jokes and remarks. And because of that, there are no fights. Not usually. Almost never. And if there are, they are about plain down-to-earth matters like sex and alcohol.
Berwald doesn't take part in these activities, though. He just watches. Observes as people chat in small groups, loudly stating their opinions on trivial matters and having good time. With time, Berwald has started to notice some certain groups and some certain patterns of behaviour.
Of course, individuals are more interesting than the small, irregular groups. There are people who simply chatted the night away. People who order one fancy cocktail after another. People who dance to the rhytm of the loud music. Some enjoy their beers in silence, others did so in company, joking loudly. Some people just want to get drunk. To get laid. To party.
Prussia.
He is still a total mystery to Berwald. Sometimes he chats all night long about insignificant things, rarely about something important. Sometimes he just drinks his beer in the corner, quietly staring at the table with dark expression clouding his face when he thinks no one is looking. Sometimes he observes others, just like Berwald. Sometimes he has his beer in large company, joking loudly and competing on meaningless, stupid things.
But tonight...
Tonight, Prussia is a dancer. Berwald's eyes follow him on the dance floor, entranced by Prussia's body rocking to the beat and silvery hair stuck to his face, covered in sweat. So sinful, Berwald thinks as he watches Prussia lean closer to another dancer on the floor, their hips touching.
He can still remember what Prussia was like years ago, when they first met. Young. Rude. Even back then the word 'innocent' hasn't been the one to describe Prussia. No. As long as Berwald has known Prussia, he had always been immoral, dirty-minded, lewd and straightforward. Honest, in a way. ...but then again, Berwald doesn't complain. It is those little things that make his interests peak. The feeling Prussia gives him, that there has to be something more beneath that rough, cocky attitude of his.
Prussia is on the move again. His hips are swinging seductively as he slips his hands down his body, undoing a button of his dark dress shirt. As if he is stripping.
Berwald doesn't move. He is barely even breathing now, his eyes glued to Prussia and his slim body dominating the dance floor.
In the dimly lit club, Prussia is, to him, the most beautiful thing in the whole world. The way his long, pale eyelashes cover his half-lidded, crimson eyes that will pierce through Berwald when he looks at them. The way his lips, pink and so soft-looking, glisten in the flashing light. Berwald longs to touch him, to feel the touch of those lips on his skin.
Berwald closes his eyes and rubs his temples. He can feel a headache coming. The flashing, coloured lights and erratic tempo of the music is getting on his nerves. And when he opens his eyes again, he sees Prussia look at him.
And smirk.
Berwald frowns, and the next thing he knows, is Prussia walking towards him, laughing. He slips down to the bar stool next to Berwald's. He glances at Prussia. Prussia leans towards him, a smug grin playing on those damned lips.
"You were staring at me."
"...mm."
Prussia raises and eyebrow, asking 'why?'. Berwald shrugs. He doesn't know. He enjoys watching him. Prussia shrugs, too, not really minding the lack of an answer. He orders a beer, assuming Berwald doesn't mind his presence.
"Doens't matter."
After that, they sit in a silence. It doesn't bother Berwald. He likes silence. Prussia keeps on staring at his beer, occasionally glancing at Berwald. Berwald stares at Prussia's fingers, holding the pint. They twitch.
Once.
Twice.
Berwald looks up to Prussia's face. His lips are pursed into a thin line, the softness almost all gone. As if Prussia finds it hard to sit still and be quiet, Berwald thinks. When he thinks of it a while longer, he realizes that it must be true. After all, every time he sees Prussia, he is moving, talking, in action. ..well, not every single time, but almost always.
Because that is what Prussia is. He csn be described as a force of nature, always on the move, in the sptolight. Unstoppable.
Like he does his everything to be seen, to be remembered.
"Ya 're 'fraid", Berwald voices his thoughts, still staring at Prussia's twitching fingers.
Prussia spurts out his beer, eyeing Berwald warily. "Whaaaaat? No way."
Berwald remains quiet. He stares Prussia thoughtfully. Right on the nerve. Prussia is afraid, only acting tough to hide it.
"...of what?" Prussia asks after a moment, his voice mocking and somehow curious. Berwald glances at him, not answering right away. He knows Prussia won't like what he is going to say. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, hoping the words will come out right. "'f d'sappearin'. Bein' left 'lone."
Prussia stares at him for a moment, then suddenly he bursts out laughing. "Man, how did you come up with that? Am not!"
"...'s true."
"Is not!"
Berwald knows he's right. The way Prussia's laugh is slightly more high-pitched that usually, the way he stares at him, taken aback. He shrugs.
"...'f ya say so."
Yet another silence embraces them. Soon Prussia starts drumming his fingers against the mahogany counter. Berwald finds it irritating, the quiet, erratic tapping creating uneven melody in his head. Maybe it's some old Prussian march, he doesn't know. But he feels his headache getting worse again. The flashing lights, the deep beat of the music and the soft tapping – it's all too much. He moves quickly, slams his hand down onto the table and in doing so, traps Prussia's hand under his own. Th pale man lets out a surprised squeak and the tapping, not so surprisingly, stops.
Prussia almost opens his mouth to say something, but the glare Berwald shoots him silences him. They sit in the silence again, Prussia staring quietly at the hand covering his own. He opens his mouth, but closes it without saying anything.
Another minute passes by.
Then Prussia chuckles quietly, taking Berwald's hand between his own and pressing it against his cheek.
Berwald glances at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"...it's warm", Prussia explains. "I always imagined it'd be cold – like your exterior, you know."
Berwald blinks. He doesn't know what to say. Or, he knows a lot of things he'd like to say. Things he could say. But he also knows that none of them would come out right. Or he'd be too embarrassed to say them.
...how can Prussia say such things with a straight face? That is something Berwald has always wondered. Of course, it is possible it's only because he is, for God's sake, Prussia. And the very same Prussia is sitting there, right next to him. Holding his hand against his cheek, that smile – smirk – on his lips and saying seemingly innocent things. ...it all made Berwald feel very warm inside.
Has Prussia always been this straightforward? This suggestive? Berwald doesn't know, he doesn't remember anymore.
And he still has no idea what to say, what to do. So he does the only thing he knows, he turns his head away from Prussia, to look at something else. He knows the tips of his ears, maybe even his cheeks, are tinted light pink and he curses himself for blushing, for getting embarrassed, so easily.
When suddenly Prussia – perhaps accidentally, Berwald can't tell – brushes his lips against Berwald's palm, he jerks his hand away – only to find Prussia gently pulling it back, now openly kissing it.
Berwald swallows. The touch, so soft in it's nature, sends shivers down his spine. He barely dares to glance at Prussia, hesitant on showing him just how much the little contact between them affected him.
What he sees... Prussia really is the most beautiful thing to him that night. The way his long, pale eyelashes rest on his cheeks. The way his cheekbones seem sharper in the club's lightning. The way those pink lips glisten, pressed against Berwald's own palm.
Such beauty, it's almost otherworldly. Prussia's thin fingers are like legs of a white spider as they embrace Berwald's wrist, holding it as if it was something very precious and fragile.
Berwald turns his head to completely face this beauty, to tell Prussia to stop before – before what, his brain asks sarcastically.
And Prussia seems to have different plans, anyway – as soon as he notices Berwald about to turn, he opens his eyes and tightens his grip on the wrist, not so gentle anymore. He murmurs; "...not so fast..."
His voice is so quiet, Berwald can't be sure if he heard him right at all. However, it doesn't matter soon. Not when Prussia suddenly runs his tongue – it is soft, Berwald notices – along the side of Berwald's palm and his index finger.
"...fan", Berwald breathes, his eyes fluttering close. Prussia lets out a small growl and bites down on Berwald's finger, causing him flinch.
"Look at me, Schweden", he orders, softly sucking on the finger he just bit.
Berwald does, indeed, open his eyes, the tone of Prussia's voice striking something deep inside. He does, however, want to close his eyes again – seeing Prussia stare at him and suck on his finger, it is simply...
Wicked.
Divine.
So beautiful, there has to be something else underneath that.
With a harsh, sudden movement, Berwald pulls his hand away, face burning red. Prussia looks up to him, a flash of hurt reflecting in his eyes, those burning crimson eyes.
"...what?", he growls, teeth bared.
And why, Berwald wonders, why is Prussia beautiful even when he's hurt like this? For the third time that night, Berwald thinks that Prussia is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. Berwald can't help but wonder why is he so beautiful. No one else has ever affected him lika this before – not possessive, violent Denmark, not childish, caring Ukraine, not even Finland, so sweet and innocent.
But Prussia.
He stares at Prussia, Prussia stares back at him. Those eyes pierce through Berwald, they make him feel uncomfortable. Almost as if they are frozen in time, in place. The world still goes on around them, the fast, deep sound of music, the bright, coloured lights and people, people dancing, people chatting, people drinking.
By standing up, Berwald breaks the spell. He looks past Prussia's head. "..can't", he says, voice quiet and he know is hurts Prussia. It hurts him, too.
Even if Prussia stares at him, a look that demands for answers in his eyes, he turns away and leaves. He exits the club, the music, the crowd. The drinks. The chatter. Cool night air greets him as he steps outside, stars are blinded by clouds and the lights of the city. The world is alive, the city lives. Streets are it's veins and people are it's blood.
Berwald catches a cab, the yellow car slowing down and allowing him to get onto the backseat before speeding off again. He tells the driver to go straight to his hotel.
He is also aware that Prussia has followed him. At the moment, he is sitting next to him, so very close but still so far. Why did Prussia follow him? Even after he had so abruptly rejected him... Beside that passing though, Berwald attempts to ignore Prussia. If he pretends that he isn't in the cab, pretends that nothing happened earlier that night... he might be able to indulge in his fantasies of the other man. To keep them pure, unstained by their encounter, his own inability to show how he really felt.
He can't. He can't ignore Prussia, sitting right next to him. So close, their thighs are almost touching, barely brushing against each other. The warmth of Prussia is... is it uncomfortable? Soothing? ...comfortable?
Berwald tenses. He, warily, glances to Prussia. Prussia seems to be staring out of the window, either deep in his thoughts or carefully watching the scenery passing by. However, Berwald can – very easily, even – tell that he isn't. No. Because right then Prussia's hand is resting on Berwald's knee, his thumb drawing small circles on the fabric of his pants. They sit in silence, both of them staring into the distance, but their thoughts concentrated on Berwald's knee.
Little by little, though, Prussia's hand mover higher and higher up, rubbing Berwald's thigh. Berwald bites his lip, clenches his hands into fists. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips the seat with one hand. He tries to calm himself by breathing though his nose, but Prussia's long fingers send small sparks to his groin, cold shivers down his spine. Yes, back at the club he hoped, wished, dreamed of Prussia's touch. But never has he dared to think that Prussia would really touch him. Berwald feels like all his trouble on hiding how Prussia affects him has been for nothing, in vain, the way he touches him gives away Prussia's knowledge. ...but how? Why?
The cab slows down before finally stopping in front of the hotel. Prussia pulls his hand away and exits the cab smoothly. He leaves Berwald to calm his racing heart, to collect himself – and pay for the ride. He doesn't complain, though, and he gives the driver a generous tip.
He stands a moment in the night, watching after the cab as it drives away, looking for new customers. Then he sighs and follows Prussia inside, out from the cold night air and into the light, warmly lit hotel lobby.
As he passes Prussia, he grabs him by the arm and pulls him after himself, forcing him to go into an elevator. Berwald's room is in top floor. He presses the respective button hastily and slams Prussia, still holding him by the arm, against the wall.
"...Wha' d'ya want from m'?" he asks quietly, eyes lowered to meet with Prussia's.
"What... I want from you?" Prussia repeats and chuckles. "The question is, rather, what do you want from me?"
Berwald blinks. "Wha'?"
"Like I said", Prussia says, smirk playing on his lips."You were staring at me. Why? You seem to... want something from me, hm?"
Berwald knows that Prussia knows the answer already and so he doesn't bother answering. Instead, he says; "Ya've s'ffered."
He knows Prussia has suffered. Not only during the past hundred years, but before. Many years, decades and centuries earlier. Some of that suffering has been caused by no other tahn Berwald himself... He has treated Prussia badly in their younger days and now... he wants to make up for it? He doesn't know. Maybe, maybe not.
The way Prussia looks at him, the way he smirks... it seems that he doesn't care how he has been treated. Doesn't care about getting hurt. That he only cares for here and now, lives in this exact moment.
Prussia snorts. "Cut out the shrink act. Like that matter anyway. I'll suffer if you don't take me now."
His eyes are fixed on Berwald's, now even more intensive than just moments ago. His eyes, they speak volumes - 'Don't deny it. I'm dead serious and you've been after me for years. Let's just get down to business.'
Berwald opens his mouth just to close it. Well. Looks like Prussia has been watching him just as Berwald has been watching him.
And Prussia has time only to blink in surprise when Berwald grabs his arm again and pulls him out of the elevator, already in the top floor. He drags Prussia down the corridor and into his suite.
He doesn't give Prussia a chance to look around in the room, he pushes him against the door and, knowing his cheeks were flaming red in embarrassment once again, he harshly presses his lips against Prussia's – the pink ones, the soft ones that glistened so deliciously. Letting out only a half-surprised moan, Prussia lets his eyes close and he wraps his slender arms around Berwald's neck.
Berwald is happy to notice that once Prussia starts, he doesn't waste time nor does he intend to stop. His hands are tugging at Berwald's clothes, the calloused skin of those war-accustomed hands warm under his shirt.
Their caresses aren't exactly gentle, the roughness still somehow comforting and oddly arousing, even. Their moans, the silent, breathless sounds, fill the room. Prussia arches his body forward, leaning against Berwald's now half-clothed body.
"Ah, Schweden, Berwald..." he breathes, a string of saliva hanging from his lips. "Bed?"
Berwald shakes his head, pressing Prussia hard against the wooden door. "...'ere."
Prussia's face lights up. "Never thought you'd have the guts to do it here", he purrs and pulls Berwald into another fierce kiss.
Both of them know that there is no need to be gentle, no need to be careful. Their pasts full of violence and hardships have made them enjoy the harshness of life, the rough caresses of their lovers. One by one, articles of clothing are torn off, a brief thought of folding them passing Berwald's mind – only to be efficiently erased by Prussia's sharp teeth sinking into his lower lip.
Berwald's lips part and he lets out a small moan, forming the word 'Preussen'. The said man tugs at Berwald's short hair, growling lowly. "...my name. Say my name", he demands breathlessly.
Berwald stops all he is doing and blinks. "Wha'?"
"My name! You do know my name?" Prussia growled impatiently, still pulling hard at Berwald's hair. He slips his down Berwald's body, down his toned stomach and stopping between his legs.
"G-g'lbert", Berwald moans, his body arching towards that hand, the fingers ghosting only millimeters above his skin.
Gilbert chuckles, the voice is deep and dark. "...good boy", he whispers and gives Berwald one lazy, long stroke. Berwald lets out a dissatisfied moan as Gilbert withdraws his hand from between their bodies, he flexes his hips forward to try and create some friction, some pressure on his erection. He manages to rub himself against Gilbert and he hisses as Gilbert pulls his hair and bites his lip, drawing blood. Berwald tastes the blood in his mouth and he lets out a drawn out moan, fingernails digging into Gilbert's back.
The blood. It reminds Berwald of the old times. The times with Denmark. The times when the violence was meant to break, to hurt – not to pleasure. ...even the times he had been raped by Denmark, he has to confess, even at those times, he had enjoyed it.
However, it isn't Denmark this time, Berwald has to remind himself.
No.
This time, the man in his arms is Gilbert, a country that was no more. And apparently he was intent on making Berwald remember who he was, remember that not existing as a counrty doesn't mean that he doesn't exist at all. Gilbert's teeth nibble on Berwald's skin, along his jaw and down his neck.
They pull each other in, like two heavenly bodies bound by the laws of gravity.
Gilbert pushes his hips towards Berwald's, and he moans as Berwald grinds back against him. The friction, the pressure... Berwald finds himself craving for more. Somehow, he can't get enough of Gilbert. Somehow, there is love and caring buried underneath the teeth and nails, the burning passion and plain want. Berwald knows what Gilbert wants and Gilbert knows what Berwald wants.
A perfect match, one would say, but Berwald has to disagree. No matter how wicked all Gilbert's dirty little tricks are, no matter how divine he is when he gets on his knees before Berwald, that damned smirk playing on his swollen, pink lips...
Their personalities are just too different.
Gilbert, for one, wants to be free as a bird, a wild eagle. It shows in the way he sucks Berwald. The way he isn't gentle. The way he moans so hot so wet as Berwald tugs his hair, eyes half-lidded.
And Berwald. He wants to settle down, be sure of his life – have a steady relationship. Strong, calm and quiet, even in their love-making. The way he has the whole situation under his control, not minding their awkward position against the door. The way he prepares Gilbert slowly and carefully, painstakingly slow, making Gilbert moan curses in German, in English, in Swedish. And even if that almost makes Berwald lose his calmness, he doesn't, he only closes his eyes and breathes deep through his nose.
And as he thrusts into Gilbert, he stays quiet – his soft moans and low groans are accompanied by Gilbert's non-stopping flow of expletives, his loud moans and random words of praise. But even his voice can't drown the cracking of the door behind his back, the door he is pounded against.
Sore. Bruised. Satisfied. Bite-marks all over Berwald's skin, along with long, red streaks from Gilbert's nails.
When Gilbert leaves the next morning, Berwald fins himself, oddly enough, missing him.
–
I like the beginning and the very end. The middle... not so good.
Well, tell what you think and because I'm too lazy to dig up all the historical references right now, ask me and I'll tell you.
Also, if the second half is full of horrible typos, it's only because I was damn tired when I was writing this... /dozes off/
THAT'S RIGHT I'm going to write a companion fic to this – actually, just the same story from Gilbert's point of view. Wait for it, okay?
Mmm, if someone didn't figure it out, Schweden is Sweden in German and Preussen is Prussia in Swedish. Also, 'fan' is a Swedish curse word, roughly translating as 'fuck'. /falls asleep for real/