Author's note: Ducere drew me beautiful SuNor! (Link was in the profile but all the links have been temporarily disabled? Look her up on deviantArt and you'll see it.) Since beauty deserves more beauty, I wrote a story for it and for her. I hope you all enjoy it, especially you Ducere, and everyone else should go look at that art, I cannot take my eyes off of it! Everything Ducere draws is beautiful!
I'd already had the idea to write a SuNor based on the Lana Del Rey song « Video Games » because in my mind a female Nor is singing it and I can see Nor and Su in the lyrics. Thus I smushed the two ideas together, which means go look at the art and go listen to the song. I'm patient, I'll wait, go right ahead.
Back already? Then allons-y!
Now you do
The world is spinning in an ugly blur of colors as the rope relives itself from its twisted-up state, Lukas lying contently in the tire swing. The sun is still up despite the late hour; the Norwegian revels in days like these, where the sun never sets. Not that he'd tell anyone that.
There's the sound of gravel and dirt crunching as a car pulls up to the front of the house. In the distance he listens to someone stop the car, getting out and making their way around back. The man is whistling an old song they used to share.
As the tire swing comes to a rest, Lukas closing his eyes and laying his head back, he feels the object beneath him move as the man in question sits on the other side, rocking them gently from side to side.
"I didn't think you'd come today," Lukas states bluntly.
"Didn't think I would either," Berwald replies.
"How long are you staying?" It's not easy, getting out to Lukas's houses. It's not easy getting out to Berwald's either; they both like the solitude, the quiet, their houses with no neighbors.
"Till Monday morning." That gives them three nights and two days. "I brought beer."
Lukas sits up a little, his eyes still closed, and snickers. "Are you trying to get me drunk Oxenstierna?" He hears a laugh as the swing is set back in motion, spinning around and around. Now the blur of colors seems so beautiful to him.
Eyes follow his every move from the blanket laid out on the warm earth. Berwald's already lost his jacket, tie, and button-down shirt; he'd still been in his suit when he'd arrived. And Lukas, who had had the day off, is spinning slowly in circles, his arms stretched out. He's wearing his shorts he only ever wears when he's alone, and an old shirt Berwald once mistakenly forgot here. Normally the fabric hangs off his body; now the Swede's belt keeps it tight to the skinny Norwegian.
Finished for the moment Lukas crawls up Berwald's body, humming contently. He's in a good mood, better than he's been in for years. He knows his eyes are glinting something mischievous, knows it when Berwald's reflect the sight. Hands bunch up the Swede's undershirt and when he takes the hint, sitting to remove it, Lukas reciprocates by removing the belt and shirt, laying down atop his sometimes lover.
Hands ghost his back as the Norwegian leans down, smiling knowingly. "I love you," he whispers in Swedish.
"Do you?" Berwald teases, their lips so close.
"I love you more than anyone else." Cool metal slides along part of Lukas's skin as he nuzzles his nose against the other's.
"Good."
Kissing Berwald has always meant three things to Lukas:
The faint taste of chocolate, vodka, and red wine mixed together, mingling with the smell of old books and wood polish.
That the Norwegian is the most important country in the world to have won Berwald's attention.
And that his best friend for over a millennia has once more come home.
A storm works itself up the next day and the two nations are forced to stay inside. Not that they notice.
In the morning Lukas awakes to find a large breakfast laid out, Berwald reading. They pass several lazy hours in the study, legs draped over one another on the couch as they read from old books and new ones alike. The rain beating at the window only serves to bring Lukas back to the large castle he once lived in with Berwald somewhere in the Swedish countryside, unseen from the rest of the world. When the rain would pound down on the glass and stone, the sky darkening so that the lightening could be that much more impressive, Berwald would always come to him. Storm likes those used to set Lukas on edge, exciting him and lighting a fire deep within his soul. The Swedish nation would always come to him in those storms, even before the union of their two countries, but in that castle Lukas could imagine that perhaps he would be able to stay in Berwald's arms forever, never having to leave. He still wishes he could.
At lunch they eat quietly; they always have. The table at Berwald's was longer, so that the Swede could stretch his legs out. But Lukas has no need of a table so long, and doesn't mind the way the other's legs intertwine with his, black jeans rustling against his own blue pants. He doesn't mind in the least.
As they clean Berwald ends up getting his shirt wet, much to Lukas's amusement. The Swede stands huffy for a moment, fighting the urge to be mad with himself and to be mad at the water that had splashed out of the sink. He curses in Swedish, his back to the Norwegian, as Lukas leans against the door frame. He watches that back flex as Berwald removes his glasses, setting them down on the counter before removing his shirt. Finished he places the glasses back on, turning with his shirt in hand.
Berwald is unlike any other man, strong as a bear but soft as a kitten at times as well. His muscles ripple as he makes to leave the room, squared-off chest and straight-lined face. The only curve is the Adam's apple of his neck, which bobs once as Lukas places a hand on the Swede's chest to stop him. The smaller man doesn't miss how the other nation's breathing hitches for just a moment, or how his eyes widen in shock before narrowing in sudden lust.
His steps go backward, hand still on Berwald's chest until they reach the stairs. An arm wraps about Lukas as they ascend the staircase, turning down the hallway. In his chest his heart is beginning to race though he refuses to acknowledge it. Lukas allows a pause at the door, one hand running up his lover's chest to feel the beating heart beneath, as quick in its beating as Lukas's. His eyes take in the chest before looking up into those eyes so like the sea they both love, Berwald opening the door to allow them entry into the sacred bedroom.
Heaven, Lukas thinks as Berwald takes his hands, pulling him to the bed. Heaven, when Berwald sits, throwing his shirt to the ground. Heaven, when Lukas sits in his lap, hands running up and down the Swede's chest, fingernails grazing hard lines and soft nipples. "Heaven," he whispers as he leans down for a kiss, then two, both chaste but both longing for so much more.
Sitting up the Norwegian allows Berwald's hands to free each button of his shirt, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. "Heaven," he hears his companion whisper as his torso is laid bare, a solitary kiss being placed in the center of his chest before the lover leans back, looking up into his indigo eyes.
Deftly his fingers slip the glasses from his lover, Berwald's face seemingly growing harder, stronger, at the action. Lukas allows nothing to cross his face, though inside he feels a swelling mixture of lust and mischief. He is gentle with the delicate glasses, knowing that his lover can barely see now, though Lukas also knows Berwald can still make out his face, has both it and his body memorized. He used to come to him on cold nights, on stormy evenings, after battles and before parting for war. He used to come to Lukas all the time and it made life worth living, living it for Berwald and the love they shared. The love they still share.
Fingers rub at the bends in Lukas's arms, where the larger man has still yet to pull the shirt away. It's one of those little gestures they still have, under tables at World Meetings, waiting in airports, unseen by others. In public they must always appear so cool, so collected, Lukas with his pinned-back hair, Berwald with his glasses. So it's a sublime joy when Lukas can twirl those Swedish glasses in his hands, playing with the ears of the glasses between his lips. Berwald watches him with the same concentration he gave to wars, to his son, to Timo, his face set beneath the Norwegian's.
"Heaven," Berwald whispers again before his hands run up Lukas's arms, over his shoulders and collarbones and neck, to pull him down into a kiss that is searing, burning, consuming. They fall back onto the bed, Swedish legs coming up behind him to help the smaller nation position himself better over his lover's lap.
From the angle it's a bit awkward to get his own pants off, but once naked it is terribly easy for Lukas to work off the other's remaining clothing, causing Berwald to moan and buck in anticipation. Lukas takes a moment to take in the sight before him, Berwald without his glasses, naked, on his back, on Lukas's bed, waiting for him. It is the most beautiful sight he could imagine.
Berwald is the most beautiful man he could imagine.
When he finally does climb over his lover, lips falling across the strong neck and shoulders, Swedish hands roaming his own Norwegian body and touching him in ways that have him blushing, mewling, wanting more, Lukas is content. Because in this world there is no one else beside Berwald and him, nothing beyond their love, nothing stronger than it. And as Lukas feels his hips being positioned, he allows one hand to fall onto the Swede's chest to help him sit up slightly.
From half-closed eyes the Norwegian takes in his lover before whispering, "Mine now." Berwald smirks knowingly, his eyes closing as well.
"All mine," he growls before entering the other, filling him not just physically but mentally, sweeping all other thoughts from his mind. Berwald lavishes him, moving faster, expertly, angling to hit just the right spot.
And Lukas moves against him gladly, whispering, over and over, in once-perfect Swedish, "I love you Berwald. You're all mine now. I love you, I love you." And when he comes, screaming, Berwald holds him close, tightly, their hearts pounding together in their chests.
Heaven.
They're drunk and it's wonderful, the beer Berwald had brought with him nearly gone, the vodka having now come out to play. The Swede is lounging before the roaring fire, a smirk on his face and a growing problem in his pants. Lukas is crawling on his knees towards his lover, licking his lips in anticipation.
Sometimes they go out, the five Nordic nations, to a bar somewhere. It's not that Berwald and Lukas don't like going to the bar, but rather that after a few rounds Christen will not stop screaming for Lukas and about Lukas and at Lukas, Timo drunkenly trying to sit on Berwald's lap, crying that he's sorry he ever left. Emil, and the Norwegian is thankful for this, just tends to sit quietly sipping at one drink all night.
So Lukas and Berwald can't drink the way they like to, the way they did as Vikings, when they go out. And with the time between when they were last together and now, their livers have had far too long of a break as Lukas takes the offered vodka shot from Berwald, downing it quickly and letting the burning sensation sweep over him.
Now the Swede is singing, rolling onto his back, holding his arms out for the Norwegian to come join him. Lukas obliges, half laying on top of the body beneath him, half laying beside it. His lover holds him tightly, too tightly, and Lukas loves that, the strength, the abandonment, all of it. Berwald's words tumble from those gorgeous lips as the smaller nation watches him, his lust growing at the sight. This is what Christen would never understand, what Timo could never be capable of and what Emil would want no part of: the quiet sort of drunk, the fallen walls of propriety, the surrender to what the heart really wants.
And so Lukas shifts to sit on Berwald's hips, grinding down to feel the stiffening member beneath him before laying down on the angular chest. Arms once more encircle him, holding him tight, and this is what Lukas knows only he and Berwald are capable of calling fun.
Because it's always been the stupid Swedish nation, as he leans up to steal the other's lips, Lukas happily obliging him as he bumps and grinds down on him. They're slow, no reason to get up the next morning, no reason to hasten the end of the weekend and the departure for Stockholm. Lukas is running his hands up and down Berwald's torso, pushing the shirt away only when it becomes a nuisance. It's always been fucking Berwald, who watches him with half-closed eyes and it's the most electrifying thing Lukas can ever remember seeing, Berwald was always the one for Lukas. The Swede can hear the things left unsaid, the thousands of words that race through that Norwegian mind and are nearly screamed, begging for someone to notice, to hear, to save him, but never voiced aloud. And the Norwegian sees the things never expressed, the emotions behind the glasses, can read the face that never changes yet expresses so succinctly a thousand and one emotions.
He's not sure when he noticed everything he did became about Berwald: would he like this shirt? does he like this shade of that color? if Lukas did this, would it bring him closer or send him further from the love of his immortal life?
Love isn't meant to last, not for them at least. He knows it is nothing more than another sacred truth as he leans down, Berwald's hands pulling his shirt off before bare chest meets bare chest, mouths crashing together like waves on a beach, hands roaming like Vikings looking for their next spot of attack. Lukas has loved a few countries for a few centuries each, but only one for all the years. In his desperation he tries to communicate that, mewling against Berwald's mouth and pressing into the body beneath him that was sculpted by gods long since forgotten. He is not worthy of such a perfect nation incarnate, of such a perfect man.
A hand grabs the back of his head, pulling him closer, and Lukas hears the unsaid words as his hands wander lower, touching and feeling Berwald. They're desperate, he's desperate and Berwald is desperate and it's been building for centuries, always dammed back but ready to burst.
Fuck, he loves him so damn much, gasping as much as they roll, Swedish lips blazing a well-worn path down his torso, hands removing them of the remaining clothing. Lukas's heart is threatening to burst from his chest, the alcohol coursing through the blood pumping in his ears and tinting his cheeks. When he was younger he thought he had already died, the first time Sweden and Norway were united under one king in 1319, for surely that had been heaven. In the flickering light Berwald sits on his heels and Lukas's mind goes back to their first time together, so desperate then too, to touch, to feel, to express those things so long kept secret, stashed away somewhere.
The hardness of Berwald has melted away, his face soft as he blinks, smiling down at him. His hands cup the sides of Lukas's face, and the Norwegian immediately kisses them, tears streaming from his cheeks as one hand moves to prepare his body. His arms wind around Berwald's neck, pulling him closer and deepening an already too-deep kiss.
Love isn't meant to last, and yet he still loves Berwald. Christen he has loved, from time to time, but each time it becomes harder, the love lessening. Lukas knows the signs and saw them, when Timo returned, could see what Berwald never showed: his love had lessened too, the cracks showing. And though part of him hates Sweden, can never subject Norway to another's rule ever again, the greater part of him loves Berwald terribly.
Their foreheads press together and Lukas realizes that Berwald's glasses are no longer on his face, their noses rubbing before the Swede sighs. Being with Berwald means seeing the world as beautiful, and when they were separated for so long Lukas could never return to that. Could only see the ugly, the hideous, the disgusting. But with his lover above him, pushing slowly into him, the world is beautiful and perfect and oh Iðunn, he could never get enough of Berwald.
This world they have been cursed to roam so long as their country's remain is a world clearly built for two: yet what humans find so hard to nations seem easy compared to what they themselves must do. Humans fall in and out of love quickly but their lives are spent just as fast. Nations have it so much harder: to find love with one they can love, to maintain love for centuries and millenniums, to keep a love all theirs… it's nearly impossible.
Nearly.
So many times Lukas had just wished it would all end, lying in bed for days on end with no desire to move. Christen would come to him, trying to rouse some reaction out of him, but he never gave the man that kind of satisfaction. Emil would crawl into bed beside him and the Norwegian would hold his brother close but it was never the same, Emil too small, too sweet, too young to ever be the one Lukas had wanted.
Lukas would lay in bed for days because life wasn't worth living without Berwald. Years had been spent dreading that Berwald had forgotten him, had replaced that part of his heart claimed for Norway with a little Finnish boy who could never really appreciate all that was wonderful about his lord.
And when Lukas had left Sweden to be free, that had been the hardest thing for him to do. Twice they were in union together, but only once was Timo not there. Leaving meant Timo would surely come back. Leaving meant Norwegian officials surely laying down rules forbidding him from returning to Stockholm. Leaving meant breaking that heart that was all his.
"I love you," Berwald moans, over and over, as he thrusts in to Lukas's body. "I love you so fucking much," and he's moaning in Norwegian.
It's always too soon when they come, like a wave crashing on the shore or the war that follows peace. But then they hold each other close, tightly, a blanket thrown haphazardly over their sweaty bodies.
"I never thought," Berwald starts, his lips moving against Lukas's shoulders, "that I would have someone to love forever." At those words the Norwegian cannot help but smile smugly, turning in those strong arms and demanding so much from those soft lips.
In the morning they'll pack his things away. In the afternoon they'll say goodbye. In the next meeting Timo will probably apologize for the fight they'd had, and Christen will bring chocolates and a plea to be taken back.
But just for this moment, they have forever.
"Now you do," Lukas whispers, and Berwald kisses him.