Author's note: I am a tomato.
A History of Sunburns
1.
Björn hisses as Leifr applies the herbs, not giving in to the man's pitiful attempts at asking for mercy. They were Vikings, they didn't need mercy.
"How did you do this this time?" the more westerly Norseman inquires, hands massaging his lover's back and shoulders. He shifts to straddle Björn's hips so that he can work more freely.
"Too much time standing on the ship."
"The sun is not your friend Björn." The red of the skin is beautiful and deep though Leifr is aware that his medicine and magic will have it mostly relieved by tomorrow morning.
"I know," the Swede moans.
2.
They sit at a window overlooking the lake, Lukas carefully rubbing the paste into Berwald's forehead and nose. The Swede breathes deeply, eyes closed, saying nothing.
Which the Norwegian is more than a little upset over, though he'll never admit it. Berwald was his first lover, his favorite. It's not as if he does not care for Christen but rather that what he feels for the Dane always seems trivial compared to the thrill of even just touching part of Berwald's flesh.
"The sun is not your friend Berwald," Lukas finally murmurs to break the ice.
"I know," the man whispers in response. He pulls the Norwegian to him, holding him tight; they say nothing more but the silence is more comfortable now.
3.
There's a comfort to knowing some things will never change as Lukas rags cold tea onto the sunburns, allowing each new application to dry before applying the next one. Berwald with his back to him, upper body bare, keeps raising his shoulders as they're touched, letting them fall when Norwegian hands move away.
There's been an awkwardness to everything as they still acclimated themselves to being alone with each other. In any other circumstance their union would have been perfect, exactly what they'd personally wanted for so long.
This is perhaps the only scenario where their union is horrid and detestable.
"The sun is not your friend my Lord," the Norwegian observes as he dunks his rag again. A large hand on his arm stills him, looking up to meet sad sea green eyes, disappointed that such titles are now necessary between them.
"I know," the larger man finally sighs and perhaps he meant more to those words than just agreement of what Lukas had vocalized.
4.
That night Lukas takes his time to massage the cream into every part of his partner's burnt skin, Berwald kissing him every once and a while. The sun is low over the tropical waters outside, the sound of the sea lapping on sand comforting.
"We weren't meant for such warm places," his husband observes.
"Maybe you're just an idiot," Lukas counters, running his hands down Berwald's (unburnt) chest from over his (burnt) shoulders to kiss him deeply. "The sun is not your friend beloved.
"I know," the Swede laughs, pulling Lukas to his lap. "Oh believe me, I know."