Berwald's life was routine. He would wake every morning with the groaning motors of the printing presses when the sky was blushing pale blue and cut away the pieces of life in the newspaper that the Stasi demanded he did. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. He didn't fear the Stasi. There was nothing to fear from them if you had nobody to care for. However, it was easier to replace the story of the artists painting their names over the abandoned houses than to argue. It was always easier to entertain the petty delusions of those who were on power trips than to fight them.
Nothing could be gained by fighting directly. Berwald did what he could-transferring money, buying supplies for a group of artists, keeping the few West books and records that hadn't been seized safe. What was easy was not right, and he knew, but right and wrong clashing made war. Nobody was ready for another war.
If Berwald was honest with himself, the thought of war was the only thing that scared him. This city seemed like a spark could set it ablaze, and he would not be the reason the world began to burn again.
That was what he told himself, but he couldn't stand the grey drain of complacency some days. The West was full of endless vitality, and it drew him. Crossing was only a short walk across the square, and it seemed too easy. So easy, that he began to cross every night.
Summer was in full, exultant swing, and the roar of the streets echoed in the distance. There was a place tucked up behind the glittering avenues that never slept, strung with gauzy veils and beads and filled with people who's skin shone pale in the black light. The owner paid Berwald to stand by the dancers and make sure nobody touched. It was good money in West marks, and an easy job most days.
Tonight, when he arrived, the owner-a Turk with a mask and a grin-pushed a new outfit into his hands. It looked suspiciously like the Red Army uniforms, and Berwald felt a wave of revulsion. The man shrugged at him.
'It's not real. Or if it is, it sure was cheap. It's for the intimidation. Some of our patrons have started getting handsy. I thought this would scare them off. Not that you need the help.' He slapped Berwald on the shoulder, but his eyes were serious. 'You've got a duty here. Keep them safe.'
Berwald put the uniform on and stood in front of the mirror. It made him look crueler. Nonetheless, he had his job, and he wanted to keep the performers safe. He turned away from the mirror, folded his familiar blue coat and placed it on his shelf, and left without turning back.
Right before he entered the buzzing crowd on the dance floor, someone brushed past him. Berwald only caught a glimpse of a tight black tank top and shorts and a pair of soft purple eyes before they were gone into the same room he'd exited. He felt strangely disoriented, his thoughts muddied before he remembered. He needed to get to the stage.
The crowd parted for him. They did usually, but today, people eyed his uniform and shied back. Berwald didn't mind so much right now. He sat back and gazed out at the technicolour lights flashing. He didn't need to think about right or wrong or the Stasi now.
The first performers were coming up now. Berwald glanced over, mind already drifting. He hoped the girl who sang the West songs was here tonight. She often opened the show, and she had a sweet, lilting voice. He hoped that the older brother she talked about hadn't found out and stopped her from coming.
He stopped cold, and hot, and electric. Those purple eyes were gazing back at him, the lights twinkling off the paint applied around them with a light hand. Berwald's gaze moved down to the knob at their neck that jumped when he swallowed, and Berwald's throat went dry.
For a second, he was afraid the crowd would jeer. There was silence, and then their humming built into a joyful roar that reverberated through the walls.
Of course, it was Berlin.
The man gave him a small smile, almost involuntarily, before he appeared to think better and looked away to the rest of his group. He took the hand of a smaller man, almost a boy, who had the same pale eyes and hair, and had accented his outfit with a bandanna around his neck patterned with puffins.
Their dance was thrumming and mesmerizing and he couldn't look away. The crowd was entranced, holding their breath as people swung and dipped each other acrobatically. Berwald found himself staring and waiting with bated breath along with everyone else as the first dancer, with the beautiful purple eyes, was raised on his troop's hands like an angel ready for flight and flipped backwards, body curving in slow motion, and landed, hands spread out, smiling so brightly he outshone the strobe lights. The stage went dark.
The crowd was silent for a single second before they screamed and clamoured for more. Berwald stood up and applauded along with them, taken aback by the strength of his own response, but sure of it all the same.
The rest of the night was the same as usual, and drab after the explosion the first performers had caused. Berwald was still stuck in imagining the dancer. None of the troop appeared again, even to mingle with the others on the floor and drink as was the custom. At the end of the night, they still hadn't appeared, and feeling oddly disappointed, Berwald went back to change out of the fake uniform.
It was there, in front of the change room, that he met the dancer again. He was waiting by the door, brows furrowed, with the rest of his troop. They were all gathered around the boy with the puffin bandanna.
'Emil, we can just put concealer on it, I know Feliks can lend you some-'
'Got it, like, right here!' someone with long blond hair called, briefly fishing in their pockets before they waved a compact. They expertly dabbed it onto the boy's face, under his eyes, and at a slight bruise on his jaw.
'Lukas won't even notice,' the first soothed again. 'You did wonderfully, don't worry, it's only our first performance. They loved you.'
Berwald coughed, and they all jumped. The one with the concealer stepped in front.
'What are Reds doing in this place?' they asked derisively, green eyes skipping over his olive coat.
''M not a Red,' Berwald glanced away. How to explain that he hated the armies as much as any artist?
'Then, like, what are you?'
''M an editor. This is m' night job.' Berwald couldn't meet the first dancer's eyes any longer. 'Uniform's a fake. The owner said I should put 't on to scare people off.'
'Well, obviously,' the one with blond hair said, picking at his sleeve. 'It's like, not even padded right. This is totally fake. But good imitation. And he's got a scary enough look for it.' They nodded, as if declaring their verdict, and stepped back.
The one with purple eyes took their place, and Berwald's chest went tight. He was even more beautiful up close, away from the harsh neon lights. His hair was curled faintly. Angelically.
'You're not a soldier?' he asked, and Berwald saw the tense of his rounded shoulders, the shift of his weight. There was muscle underneath his soft skin. Berwald focused on him, drawing away from the world.
'Swear 'm not.'
He relaxed, and held out his hand. After an moment of hesitation, Berwald shook. He tilted his head to meet his gaze, and squeezed his hand. 'I'm glad. My name is Tino Väinämöinen.'
'Berwald Oxenstierna.'
'Did you like the performance, Berwald?' Tino asked. His mouth seemed naturally to tip into a smile, and Berwald never wanted to stop watching.
''T was good,' he said, and coughed. 'Best we've ever had here.'
'We've been practicing for a long time.' Tino smiled again, before he seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts and turned to his troop. They were all staring at him with expressions Berwald couldn't quite understand. Tino's ears were pink, and he clapped his hands. 'That was really good. We can begin our new routine tomorrow, the usual place.'
'Where are you going?' the dancer who was still examining the edge of Berwald's coat asked.
'I'm going to have a drink before I go to bed,' Tino said, ushering them out. When they were all gone, they were alone. Tino was still in his tight tank top.
'Would you like to join me?' Tino asked, and Berwald nearly stammered out all his thoughts-Tino, asking him?
'Only 'f I pay,' he finally said, pulling out his wallet. His face felt hot. He held up a hand to silence Tino's protest and tried to breathe-Tino was looking at him with those gorgeous eyes and he couldn't think right. 'I'll see y' on the floor.'
Berwald ducked into the room and took off the fake uniform and put on his familiar coat. The man in the mirror was familiar again, even if his hands were shaking and his eyes were wider. He took a deep breath before joining Tino on the floor. Painted red and green and blue by the swirling lights, he was enchanting.
'You look good in that coat,' Tino said. Berwald didn't know how or what to say, but Tino thankfully led him to sit down at the bar.
'All this reminds me a bit of the northern lights. The colours and the dark and the happiness,' Tino admitted, and giggled self-consciously. Berwald just stared. His smile curled up and his eyes crinkled around the corners. 'Have you ever seen the auroras?'
'A lon' time ago.' But here, with Tino close and the strobes slower, Berwald could imagine every streak of light clearly. 'Back in Sweden.'
'I'm from Finland!' Tino swirled his drink and unwrapped a candy. Berwald didn't know where he'd gotten it. 'Revontulet. That's how you say 'northern lights' in Finnish.'
''N Swedish, you could say it...Norrsken.'
'Norrsken,' Tino repeated. 'I miss the auroras. I lived in a tiny town, where the winter lasted almost all year and when the sky lit up green and pink you could almost see all night.'
Berwald remembered everything so clearly. The sky alive with light and colour and the snow catching in his eyelashes and the horizon blue for miles.
'I like it here, don't get me wrong,' Tino said. 'It's just that-it's loud here. And bright, and fast, because of the people. This city never seems to sleep. Wanting always seems to happen in cities with people like this.'
'What abou' if there's people like us?' Berwald asked. Tino's eyebrows flew up, and he was just as surprised.
'Well...change happens with us. Art happens. You said you're an editor, and I'm a dancer.' Tino smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. 'People don't always like that I'm a dancer. Even here, you're expected to be a certain way, and if you're not...people get hurt.'
'I don' mind.'
Tino peered up at him over the rim of his glass, toying with his sweets wrappers. His voice was soft and his eyes were wide and shining. 'Really?'
Berwald forced himself to look away and take a sip of his beer. He couldn't reveal his secrets to people, even if they had beautiful eyes and soft hair. ''M an editor. People think I should be a soldier.'
Tino was quiet for a moment longer than normal before he nodded and took a drink.
'Yeah,' he said, sounding subdued. Berwald wanted to take back his foolish words, to tell him what he wanted, but it could be a mistake. Tino could be a Stasi spy, or if he wasn't, another person could be watching for him to show weakness.
He would not tell Tino the truth to keep them both safe, even if his heart had to be bound in chains for it.
'It's getting late,' he said, standing up. Tino followed a moment later. 'Are y' sure about walking home alon'?'
'I'll be fine, Berwald,' Tino assured him, and Berwald knew he would be, because there was steel just underneath the surface and it thrilled him. But he didn't want to let Tino go so soon.
Maybe Tino saw it in his eyes, because he held out his hand and Berwald took it, feeling the heat of his skin through the leather glove.
'I can walk you home,' he joked. Berwald shook his head.
'I live in the East.' He jerked his head, feeling ashamed of it in some way, but Tino didn't mind.
'I'll let you walk me home, then.'
Tino hummed as they walked, hands fluttering through the motions of his dance. When he caught Berwald's eye, he grinned and began to sing.
'I'll be as strong as a mountain or weak as a willow tree. Any way you want me, well, that's how I will be…'
His singing voice was sweet and clear. Berwald hadn't heard the lyrics clearly in the pounding bassline of the club, and hadn't cared because the music hadn't seemed like his type, but here, among the streetlights and the blue glow of evening, with this dancer-he was starting to like it, and he was starting to love Tino.
His eyes were lovely and the way his face opened up when he spoke about his dancing made Berwald want to see more of it. To do this would be dangerous, but he was lost.
'Tino,' Berwald interrupted. His head was spinning. 'C'n-can I see you tomorr'w?'
'Of course,' Tino said, sounding surprised. 'Well, not performing, but I'll be back at the club. And I'll pay.'
His words were now lost, and all he could do was nod as Tino giggled, rippled his fingers in a wave, and went inside.
Berwald turned around and began the long walk to the East. The streetlights gleamed along the roads in a parody of the auroras.
Change; the exact opposite of his routine life. Tino brought change like the northern winds, wonderful and longing and deadly. Tino, who already felt like home, was so dangerous. Berwald's life had been based around not having anyone else to care for, but now all that had changed.
0o0o0o
In your hands my heart is clay,
To take and hold as you may.
I'm what you make me, you've only to take me,
And in your arms I will stay.
-Any Way You Want Me
:: Realizing chance and luck
