Sweden has always had big hands.
Big hands are useful- he can build things. Clocks, tables, and the like. He can piece together bed frames and chairs. He can hold things like grocery bags and rolling pins, plastic slips full of flowers, presents and material doting. He can tie knots in ship sails and rope, rope that is hard to spin together and harder still to break unless one has big hands, like his. His hands don't fit into gloves and so he makes his own with soft leather and long lines of thread that he runs through seams in neat, precise lines, careful and nimble in ways overlarge, inept fingers should not be able to properly execute. But Sweden's hands are never clumsy. He appreciates them; he keeps his palms clean and his fingernails trimmed and he prides himself on the ability to perform such menial, dainty tasks such as sewing, carving, or slicing vegetables into interesting shapes before he drops them into Sealand's lunchbox. Big hands are expected to be rough, but Sweden touches lightly; he would rather feel than move and he pets his dog and brushes his fingers through hair with the same gentleness than he would show to the flowers in his garden. Heavy hands are not the same as big hands and it's a talent to keep his fingers trained. He is proud to have skilled them so well.
But, behind closed doors (doors that he has weathered himself) Sweden knows that big hands can be constructive in ways that do not always look like adoration to the untrained eye. His devotions to every day life often blur together with nights that he spends with Denmark, moments that they share hidden inside those very doors. He can still tie rope, but rather than anchor a boat, it loops through intricately painted headboards or in long mazes of purposefully placed knots against bare skin that tighten and pull with even the slightest bit of movement. He can still sew in a straight line, but instead of repairing jeans, he is lacing ribbon through stainless steel hoops in patterns that mimic corsetry along the barely visible curve of a bare back. He can still hold more than one thing at once; a birch rod and a leash at the start, ice and dry towels at the end. The almost obsessive neatness and efficient pace is always still present, but the tenderness is replaced for several liberating hours and Sweden allows himself to let go.
Those are hours that Denmark willingly submits to him and lets himself get lost right alongside him. He's done it before, with others, but he tells Sweden he likes it best with him. Because his hands are better than theirs and they leave bigger bruises that he can touch and press throughout the week, occupying himself until they begin to fade and they can start all over again. Bruises are like hickies to Denmark; a mark of love that he is allowed to keep.
Maybe it isn't love, but the routines don't emerge from hate either. It's a game of trust, pulling each other back and forth from the edge and being there to reassemble when the lights brighten and the box of equipment goes back under the bed. Denmark likes the edge. He likes to get as close as he can to enjoy the thrill of the possible fall and Sweden is more than happy to give him the little pushes that he enjoys so much. Sadist and masochist are interchangeable and that is just fine with them both because those shoves over the emotional cliffside are what keep their old senses alert, ready to approach modern life, and keep the bonds between them locked in place. The wars between them are over, but fun is still fun, regardless if it leaves one of them looking like death in the trenches once a week.
And it is fun. The physical strain is fun, the fight is fun, and the aftermath is fun. It's fun to slip leather cuffs around Denmark's wrists and ankles and a hood over his head so that he can't see where the crop comes from. It's fun to tie him in ten meters of intricately knotted jute rope and watch him squirm and pull while wax dribbles over his heaving ribs and he pleads for Sweden to touch him. It's fun when the roles are reversed and Sweden finds himself with his arms hanging from the ceiling and a bar between his legs, allowed just enough space to stand on shaking knees while Denmark plunges into him and whispers in his ear. It's fun when there are no restraints at all and they spend the night just biting and scratching, fighting with open hands and seeing how long it takes for one of them to finally give in to the other, bed frame creaking and shadows hitching against the walls like whispering spectators.
Normal fun, perhaps not. But normal for them.
Not that their kind has a standard definition for normalcy.
Special occasions call for special events and it is not until Denmark's birthday, when he asks Sweden to kill him, that Sweden notices the size difference between them. The words are barely out of his mouth, a nonchalant kind of request over lunch, and at once, Sweden's mind begins going to dark places. Denmark tells him that he is exhausted; he can't sleep due to being buried under the stress of planning for the environmental conference and worrying about his military men overseas, and even their usual abnormal normal routines are not straining enough to drain him to rest. He wants to force it. He wants Sweden to force it. No rules, no safe words. Just the two of them breeching a line they haven't crossed in over a hundred years. They've both died at each other's hand before, several times during wars that drug out, but they never do stay dead. A day passes and the heart starts again, skin knitting and healing while the brain stays switched off. Denmark assures him that this time will be no different and there is no one else he trusts to do it. The implications make Sweden's heart race- this is a level of intimacy they have not yet explored. It's a wire not yet walked and a ledge that still has a beware sign on it, warning jumpers of the fall. It's something new. It's something thrilling.
Sweden has always had big hands.
He uses his hands on a Sunday to gently take Denmark's wrist and lead him to his bedroom, not the guest room where they usually partake in their late night exercise. His gloves are a pair that he's only just finished a few days ago and they still smell faintly of fresh leather and oil as he pulls the curtains shut and orders Denmark to wait on his knees on the floor by the foot of the bed, not turning from his task of sealing out the real world to see if he complies or not. He lights no candles or romanticism this time, other than the addition of satin sheets, but the room is warm enough in the dim light from the paper lamps above the bed that a single bead of sweat sticks to his shirt in anticipation of the following games. Anticipation is good. It builds tension, which builds adrenaline, which ensures that the body is still strong enough to return with the mind when everything is said and done. He thinks cellos ought to do it, and presses play on the CD player in the corner of the room.
When he turns around, Denmark is sitting on his ankles with dark circles under his eyes and soft, orange carpet puffing up around his knees. He looks worn out when their eyes meet, flickers of a challenge still waiting under heavy lids, and the smirk he wears is so self serving that Sweden almost wishes that they were using equipment. He takes slow strides across the room, making a show of loosening his tie as he comes to stand in front of Denmark. For a moment, he just stares down at him, a hand placed on top of his head with long fingers splayed out through his hair, running his thumb back and forth, tender, like he would handle a sleepy animal, which, really, is all Denmark is right now. He has an air about him, a kind of nervous energy that buzzes around the room and fills Sweden up from top to bottom, and when he licks his lips and asks what the plan is, Sweden grips him by the hair and wrenches his head back to expose his throat. He bends then, stooping low enough to brush his nose against Denmark's cheek as he passes on his way down, running the tip of his tongue along the edge of his shirt, taking a small taste of the skin that peaks out from the red cotton. He knows Denmark gets it by the moan that runs thick from his lips. He wants to know more. He wants to know how Sweden intends to do it.
The tie, he guesses.
Sweden pushes him back against the bed frame and slides his palm up the front of his shirt, taking hold of the first button between his thumb and forefinger. A gentle tug and his collar opens, exposing a small triangle of bare skin. He reaches up to his own collar and yanks his tie off, discarding it to the ground.
Denmark's hands tremble when he reaches out to undo Sweden's belt. The thin, expensive strip of leather is his next guess and he holds it out for him to take, an expectant look fading to curiosity when Sweden does not take it, instead holding his hands out in front of his face and quietly suggesting that he remove the gloves. And he does, without the use of his hands, curling his tongue around Sweden's fingers, sucking on the neat stitches, pressure enough for Sweden to feel, dragging each glove off with his teeth and spitting them out at his feet. He leans forward to kiss his knuckles, but Sweden ignores the gesture all together in favor of busying his fingers with the next button of Denmark's shirt, then the next, until his chest is completely bare. He flattens his hand against Denmark's belly, trailing his fingers up to his neck, raising goosebumps in their wake, and lets his fingertips push lightly into his throat before continuing to his chin, catching him and tilting his head back. He turns Denmark's face, left, right- watches him swallow as realization begins to settle in. He parts his lips and presses them against Denmark's soft skin, his teeth grazing against jittering breaths, tongue fluttering up and down against his Adam's apple as his hands move to slide his shirt off entirely in one, fluid motion, bringing tense shoulders into the light for him to rub his palms against. He's being gentle. Too gentle and he knows it's throwing Denmark for a loop by the way his arms begin to shake and the red that starts to creep into his face. He had been expecting violence from the start and if Sweden was not so busy tasting the alarm in his flesh, he might have laughed. He pulls back, just barely, so that his lips still touch, and he asks how Denmark feels.
Ready.
Still, he yelps when Sweden fists his hair and throws him against the floor onto his back, straddling his hips and grinding against him as his hands clamp around his throat and force his head back. There is a brief flash of panic in his eyes, one that Sweden relishes in, and they both know the fight is on and the timer is running. Up to sixty seconds for unconsciousness if effectively applied; another minute or two after that to finish. Twenty-four hours to wake up again.
Plenty of time to make things interesting.
Almost immediately, Denmark's hands fly up to grip Sweden's wrist in an automatic reflex to pry him off. Denmark doesn't take care of his hands like Sweden does. He has dirt under his nails and a band-aid around one finger that is at least a day old, frayed and peeling back over a paper cut scab. It's unhygienic. Sweden's hands, though, are immaculately clean, freshly washed with lemon-scented soap but still smelling of leather and oil as he digs his thumbs into the soft hollow above Denmark's clavicle, eliciting a startled gurgle from the other man. Less than ten seconds in and his throat starts to jump, trying to gag, and he begins to struggle from beneath him, his heels hitting the floor and pushing against the carpet, eyes locked with Sweden as he loses the ability to keep his mouth closed. Sweden meets his stare. He wants to make absolutely sure that they are looking at each other when the last moments finally do come, a sort of reassuring voyeurism that tells him that he'll still be here when he wakes up.
Fifteen seconds and the red in his face begins to flare wildly and his legs thrash. Sweden links his fingers together and rams his palms into either side of his neck, thin, white, and pretty like those swans he's so proud of, gritting his teeth and counting the panicked heartbeats that he feels in his hands, thrumming hard through the arteries between his fingers. One, two three, one two three. Denmark blinks rapidly, eyes blown wide and dilated in a way Sweden has never really seen before. It's unsettling, but it lights a fire right in his stomach and he growls, pressing down harder, coaxing more high pitched gasps out to land on his knuckles. Ten more seconds and Sweden has drool all over his hands, warm, sticky, and leaking out of Denmark's mouth in sputtering lines, strangled, thin breaths barely forcing their way out over his uselessly floundering tongue in bursts of nothing but sound. He claws at Sweden's arms; twists and scratches, leaving deep, red rakes along his equally flushed skin. He's unbearably hot and God, Sweden has never seen him sweat like this before.
Thirty seconds and his left eye hemorrhages, red seeping around blue just as his lashes begin to flutter unevenly and his legs slowly start to slide down. Here it is- the climax. His wheezing has slowed to nothing but jerky twitches and Sweden digs in deep, climbing off and dragging him up to his knees by his throat, forcing his face sideways to look at him. From somewhere behind him, the cellos raise in not-quite a crescendo, but a surge, and Denmark's whole body begins to shudder violently, held up by nothing but the very hands that are turning his lips blue. His hand tries again to push him away in one last, weak effort, and Sweden hauls him forward, his arms trembling uncontrollably, mashing their mouths together and ripping his teeth into Denmark's swollen tongue, bringing forth a spurt of red and copper in the same moment a dull gasp crackles like fire deep in Denmark's chest.
The thud Denmark's body makes when it hits the floor echoes. Sweden stumbles backwards, his own breath heaving, and he rakes his shaking hands through his sweat-soaked hair, trying to get his wits about him while Denmark lies motionless in a twisted heap of broken blood vessels and still-dripping spit a pace away. Forty-five seconds. That's all it took, not even leaving a mess behind. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, unsurprised to find it drenched in the lingering scent of stale fear, and eases himself down to the edge of the bed, taking a moment to let his handiwork sink in. A thick ring of blue and purple has already formed around Denmark's neck, a mark that won't get much darker, and his eyes are still open and glassy, unfocused and staring at the ceiling over his mouth, which is lax and wide open. He's still red and sweaty. The flush is nice, Sweden thinks- it almost looks bashful, like he's embarrassed to be in such a state, no movement or breath and pants skewed around his waist. Sweden shakes his head. Denmark had given him consent to do whatever he pleased with him while he was out, and while the heat between his legs makes the offer tempting, he just can't quite bring himself to do any more than lean back against the headboard and stroke himself to relief, staring at that heavy, heavy bruise circling his throat.
It's wider than it ought to be. But then again, Sweden always has had big hands.
When the lights come on, the mess is more obvious and Sweden carefully scoops him into his arms and places him into his bed against clean satin sheets, gently running a washcloth over him before tucking him in and sliding in beside him, cheek rested on his chest as he waits for his flesh to cool. Night comes and goes and late into the evening the next day, when Denmark wakes with wheezing, bruised lungs, Sweden asks him how it was.
Denmark only smiles and kisses his palms.
Dyspnoea: difficult or labored respiration