Author's note: Dieselpunk! Can be taken to follow « Everything never said » is you'd like, though not necessary. Set towards the end of WWII.
Diesel
The body is partially hidden by the hood of the car but Timo would know it anywhere: the long torso, the wide chest, the way those legs lock together, that ass. Timo's always liked that ass.
There's a banging as something's hammered and the Finn comes to stand beside the table covered in tools, taking in the space around him: the workshop had definitely been expanded, the wooden carved pieces blending in with the metal ones, clearly a new hobby for the Swede.
The banging stops.
By the time Timo realizes it, turning back, sea green eyes are already taking him in with a forlorn look; Berwald's face is covered in smears of diesel and dirt.
"Hey Be," the Finn sighs, making to step to the man. Berwald beats him to it though, standing to drop the hood of the car back into place and walking around to open the side door.
"Hey," is all he says as he starts the car that purrs but doesn't seem to satisfy. Turning it off Berwald goes back to the hood, opening it and grabbing another tool from the table, flipping it over in his hand. When Timo doesn't say anything the Swedish kingdom looks over his shoulder as if silently asking, what the fuck are you doing here?
Timo smiles weakly. "I know last time we spoke it didn't end well-" Berwald grunts in agreement "-but…." He sighs, shaking his head and letting his eyes raise to the ceiling. There's a plane hanging from the rafters because why not? This is Berwald Oxenstierna after all; damned man probably hung the thing by himself.
"I built an addition," the Swede interrupts, pointing to the ceiling before gesturing about. "Made the space bigger. Found some new toys to play with." When he starts the car up this time the purr satisfies him.
"This new?" Timo asks, pointing at the car and playing along because the truth has always been that Berwald doesn't like discussing the bad times. That was how the… explosion of emotions had come about last they'd met, something the Finn wanted to get out into the air so they could move on and that, clearly, the Swede wanted to pretend had never happened. "It's nice, the color's good." Deep blue; he can almost remember someone with eyes this color.
"Been working on it for a couple of weeks," the man admits, lovingly stroking the steering wheel. He smiles then at Timo. "Want to go for a ride?"
"Maybe later," the smaller nation laughs. "By the way, you have dirt on your face, I think it's oil-"
"Where?" Immediately the blind rubbing of the face starts, the Finn trying to help but giving up, grabbing the rag from Berwald's pocket and rubbing at the oil himself. The larger man lets him, stilling and holding his face up for Timo to clean. Good thing he'd been sitting already the Finn thinks to himself.
When he's done he hands Berwald the rag, stepping back and smiling sheepishly. He tries to not stare at Berwald but it's hard when the man's wearing a blue jumpsuit with the top part folded down, exposing his dirty white undershirt and bare arms that bulge from his muscles as he tucks the rag back into his pocket.
Their eyes meet and for what feels like hours they just look into each others' souls until Swedish arms pull Timo to that body suddenly, holding him too tightly in that way he's missed being held. And the Finn lets Berwald, wrapping his arms about the man's neck and cradling his former lover's head to his shoulder, the familiar feel of glasses digging into his skin nice.
Hug over Timo pulls back, Berwald capturing his face first before the Finn takes the other's face into his hands too. He's not sure if he wants the Swede to cry but Timo knows he won't; these wars have hardened his heart too much for such easy emotions anymore.
Sometimes Timo marvels that Berwald still has such a large heart after so many wars.
"I-" the Swede stutters and Timo understands, a finger running over Berwald's lips to silence him before the Finn leans in, kissing him softly, his hands moving into Berwald's hair.
It feels so good to feel that man again, to let his hands run up and down that chest, both over and under the dirty undershirt, pushing it up so Timo can push the skin of his hands into Berwald's chest. The Swede's hands have snaked up under his jacket and shirt, tracing lines on his back and holding him close.
Lips brush lips as they stand there, breathing deeply with eyes closed, neither man wanting the moment to end.
"How about that ride now Herr Oxenstierna?" Timo teases and Berwald truly smiles for the first time today.
"With pleasure."