"He lived in a castle of paper and ink.
He surrounded himself with flimsy paper walls that were barely held up by the gummy glue that bound his many books, but the words imprinted on them were stronger than any stone bricks and treacherous moats one could put up to protect himself. They made a maze so much more intricate than the Minotaur's labyrinth; yet, if one would just follow the words, one wouldn't need any thread to lead oneself through.
He ruled over his castle with an iron fist.
No foreigners were allowed in his lonely kingdom of one. Who knew what could happen, if an enemy were to declare war, and strike at the very center? The walls would crumble all around him, and he would only be left with his home in rubble, and his heart in ruins.
So he built up his defenses, built the walls higher and higher with words to shun outsiders. And he waited. Waited for someone to come and make it all crash to the ground. But no one came knocking the castle down.
Was all his preparation in vain?
Not really; rather, a sly little spy had, instead of taking a battering ram to the inked bricks, deciphered them and let them lead the way to the center of the maze. It really was quite easy, and the king did not see the one flaw until it was too late."
"Morning." Berwald didn't even look up from his desk, as he scribbled furiously on the paper, and Tino sighed silently with a small smile. Walking over ever so quietly, he placed his cup of tea next to the stacks of papers and notebooks, already stained with tea and coffee and graphite smears. The writer showed no sign of acknowledgement, except for a slight shift to the left and moving his arm to obscure the view, where Tino was. He sat down on the couch, and looked out the window. It was fine; he was used to it. The quiet man was even quieter about his writing. And he could wait until Berwald showed him his precious words.
He had time to wait. He could wait for almost an eternity.
Almost every day was like this, where the writer would sit himself at his desk with his worn pencil and its grooves, and write. Just… write. Word after word, each paper filling up with fantastical stories of hot air balloons and horses charging into war and how he liked to believe that the stars in the sky were pinholes made to show Heaven's blinding light. He would never stop spinning at his loom, tapestries of scenes from the past and present and future, until they surrounded him to portray the colorful life he lived out in his mind. He would barely move, yet Tino knew that he crossed distances greater than he could imagine when he was writing.
He was the one that could create these universes from the tiniest ideas and appreciate the shortest flash of sunlight in dewdrops on the grass.
He was the one that the Finn would find awake at 2:16 AM, watching the stormy winds toss the tree branches and leaves back and forth, creating yet another world in those stern blue eyes as he hunched over the dim lighting, words almost illegible.
If he was lucky, he might be carried along, in a hot air balloon with a crow's eye view, held in Berwald's arms as he pointed out the scenes below them, of Vikings and hunters and wood nymphs.
Or maybe, they would sit under a blanket, as he whispered soft words into Tino's ear and traced small circles on his arm, leaving faint trails of graphite and sometimes ink. The notebooks and binders and laptop would be far away, and they would spin their own stories together. This was Tino's favorite part.
Of course, it wasn't easy. There would be times when even his written words could not explain what was going on in his head, and Tino would be left to try and decipher what the man really wanted. Sometimes, he got tired of words on paper and craved for spoken word in the silent house. Other times, he wished just for silence, when music was turned up so loud that it separated them by oceans, even if they were only ten feet away.
It wasn't easy, dealing with Berwald's privacy, his own curiosity, and his thoughts of, "Why won't he just show me?" or if the Swede was in a rare talking mood, he might wish for an escape as he rambled endlessly. Sometimes, he felt infuriated by Berwald. He could say that he absolutely hated him at points. And it wouldn't be wrong to say that Berwald hated him too. Their house felt as cold as ghosts sometimes.
The writer was moody, open and closed, warm and icy cold, realistic and lost in senseless dreams, lazy and motivated… but most of all, he was imaginative and understanding. The man's eyes saw each nuance that life had to give him; he saw right through people and their many faces, and he could resonate with each of them because people were like characters, intricate and complex, but essentially the same at the core. He never expected perfection, for the worlds he lived in were not perfect, either. Yet he could make life with him almost like a dream, and as cliche as it sounded, Tino could get lost in those worlds forever.
He felt blessed. He could live every day like this.
But he knew he couldn't. The selfish desire gnawed at his heart and struck the very core of it, sending him into shivers.
Forever was not a choice that neither he nor Berwald had, in the grand scheme of life. No matter how many ways they manipulated it, they couldn't change what would come eventually. And the worst part was that only one of them knew how cruel fate would truly be in the future.
His lips thinned at this thought, and Tino looked down at his hands in his lap, sighing again.
"Hey." He looked up, and saw Berwald standing there, with the worn pages in his hand. Scooting over on the couch, he patted the cushion next to him. Was he finally going to show him what he had written? The couch sank slightly under the Swede's weight, and Tino looked at him with a small smile.
"For you," Berwald mumbled, "Been tryin' to keep it a secret 'til it was done." And he promptly shoved the papers into the hands of the smaller man. Blue eyes, normally very direct, were averted down.
"Thank-"
"Just read."
Tino frowned-he wanted to make this moment special, or at least thank him properly, for it was rare that he ever got to see anything of Berwald's. But if the man wanted to rush this, fine. Before he could start muttering under his breath and sulk, the writer grabbed his shoulders suddenly.
"Just read it. Please. Just do it quick."
"All right, fine." Berwald let go as he exhaled (since when had he been holding his breath?), and stared at the cover sheet-just a plain white sheet, slightly smeared with pencil marks and coffee cup stains, and only the words, "A Kingdom Beyond Time" typed neatly in typewritten block.
He wish he could've said it was special. But, it was not any different from any words that were ever written. He wish he could've said it was like one of Berwald's dreams.
But no. It was something beyond that. It was… reality. Life and love and angst and humor and tears all mixed in a messy conglomerate that dreams were too neat, too perfect for.
"To my dearest T. V. I may not live forever, but at least my love for you will, and with it, you will be immortalized by my words."
And when he finished reading the words, just on the second page, his lips curved upwards, and his heart thumped a little harder, and his eyelids lowered ever so slightly as he put the papers aside. The writer's eyebrows scrunched, his own heart starting to thump faster and faster, until hands took his hands, and squeezed them. Berwald focused on those lips, hoping they would give the words he wanted to hear. So scared, yes, he was, but did he hope more than he feared?
It was that smile, though, that gave it away with a whisper that only he could hear, and no one else, for it was Berwald, only him, only him.
"I love you, too. And my love for you… is eternal. It will live… forever."
But oh, how selfish it was of Tino, speaking the truth as he allowed himself to be embraced by the one who had immortalized him in words, that would be read by many others. He spoke the very truth, as his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and the amethyst hue had turned an almost primrose color, darkening with tears. For he would love him forever, that much was true.
Forever, as in never-ending time. It was not a choice that either of them had.
A tear slipped from his eye. He truly was selfish.
A writer had fallen in love with him, and now he could never die.
But like the words, his life was already immortal in the first place.
Was it in vain, to immortalize a love already eternal…
"…and the king did not see the one flaw until it was too late."
[Author's Note]
Well, it's been a while since I've been on this account. Or, just even writing fanfiction in general. This was a prize for a follower on Tumblr in a giveaway on my group blog-prompt: fluff, having Sweden tell Finland "I love you" for the first time. Well... I didn't quite stick to that, did I? And the ending is so drawn out D:
Anyways, since it's been so long that I've been here, all of my previous drafts have been deleted. Gone. I'm rather glad, actually. For the projects listed on my page, I will get to them. Maybe. At one point. They're still good ideas, but Tumblr, school, and art has consumed a lot of my time. Wow. This is kind of a pointless author's note.
Thank you to Anton (moonfaechild) and Maria for the Swedish and Finnish words in the title!
Reviews are sorely appreciated! ~Anh.