Author's note: Télé ran a show called "Voyages en pays nordiques" a couple times (at least I think that's what the title was, I wasn't wearing my glasses) in Nice, France. Mainly it was Greenland, Iceland, and Denmark the days I watched it, and there were a lot of fish (I hate fish with the consuming passion of a thousand burning fires, they are the fucking worst!) but I endured because it was in French, and I love the Nords. (And I didn't have my glasses on so I couldn't see the fish.)
I will ship France with anyone if you haven't noticed, and Berwald is my favorite character; I thus give you France/Sweden with much more to follow.
(This took forever to finish and has two pieces following it, « Paris-Gare de Lyon » and « Billet », and then I'll have finished posting all my stories-written-about-the-place-I-was-that-day-in-Europe fics.)
Voyages en pays (nordiques)
It had to have been love when Francis sacrificed his beloved sweater for the little boy, who ran to see the panoramic view of Nice at the edge of the old fortifications. Peter had spent most of the day running coat-free, his father's large sweatshirt too big on him do the trick when the air turned cold. He's watching the sweet micronation, now sans his favorite sweater, when a sudden darkness envelopes Francis as Berwald pulls his own sweatshirt over the French nation's body. It's still too big for him, but it at least fits Francis better than it fit Peter.
"Don't want you to get cold," the quiet Swede mutters in once-perfect French, now forgotten from over a century of disuse. They used to be close, sometimes-allies, sometimes-friends- but never lovers; Francis doesn't like labels and Berwald doesn't like having too many relationships outside the Nordic nations. The tension was always there, stolen kisses (and more) on nights they were suppose to be elsewhere, but it's only been their secret for hundreds of year now. The Frenchman pretends his heart doesn't still ache every time he sees the Swede kiss another.
"Thanks," Francis laughs in a mixture of suspicion and knowledge that he will never fully understand this handsome man beside him that the world calls Sweden. The nation in question takes in the scene before them with narrowed eyes, nodding once in comprehension. Sometimes at world meetings others poke fun at Berwald who rarely speaks, is hard to understand, and seems to always speak first in whispers with whoever is beside him before commencing his speeches, as if consulting someone else due to some perceived stupidity. But Francis knows that Berwald's mind is an amazing whirlwind of ideas he learned early to keep to himself, ancient people rarely appreciating what he was speaking to. And though his words are difficult to understand that is the trade-off for the simplicity and perceptiveness the Swede alone possess. As for the whispers, Francis knows its nothing more than a habit but still, watching Berwald whisper to Lukas or Timo makes him jealous in a way he won't admit to.
"Papa! Look at that!" As Peter points out over the Bay of Angels, Francis watches Berwald step forward assuredly. Those pale arms bulge with muscle, the Swede's t-shirt standing in stark contrast to the late December day. But then again, southern France is much warmer than northern Sweden. Much, much warmer. Francis thinks how much they reflect their countries in that way, him with his warm exterior, Berwald with his cold one, not that either men show who they really are in public. No, that would be disgraceful and they both know it.
"Allô?" Blinking, the Frenchman sees the Nordic nation in question taking him in over his shoulder, leaning against the marble railing beside his son with an ease that he himself lacks with the small nation. It's like Berwald was always meant to be a father. "Francis?"
Maybe he was. "Oui?"
"What's that?" A large hand gestures forward, Francis cautiously moving to lean against the rail on Peter's other side. The boy is bouncing on his feet in anticipation, grinning up at him wildly; Berwald gives a small smile as he takes in his son's head. The Frenchman relaxes at that, explaining in slow French for the young Sealand what everything before them is. Berwald nods silently, taking in the view and letting the others do the talking. Francis can't stop himself from glancing over at the large man every once and a while, though he tells himself it's to make sure the Swede is enjoying the castle and not because he likes the thrill of his heart beating quick.
"What's that?" Peter asks in English.
"Cheese," Francis whispers after a quick glance, returning to his menu.
"And that?"
"Potato."
"And this here?"
"I think," Francis finally sighs, placing his menu down and wrapping his arm around the boy so that he can see his menu better, "you would like… this one."
"Ok!" Satisfied Peter turns to his father who silently holds his menu out. "This one!" and he points at the item on his father's menu. The Swede nods once.
"And you?" It takes a moment for Francis to realize the question was directed towards him. Actually all Berwald's words for him seem to take him by surprise, the skilled lover still in shock that the object of his fantasies is here with him.
As nonchalantly as he can he shifts to point at Berwald's menu in the same intimate way the man's son had. "I thought this one for me." His fingers brush cold skin as he pulls his hand back, electrifying Francis and making his heart race. The Nord nods again.
When the waiter comes to take their order Berwald beats Francis to the punch, ordering for his son, then Francis, then himself.
In perfect French.
"What was that?" the French nation hisses, his eyebrows knit in confusion. He's only been putting up with the awful way the Swede carries on because he, well, has all these feelings when Berwald is around. And that, that was French that was flawless grammatically, syntactically, a smart accent that could have indicated he was a native to these lands if he wasn't another nation's incarnate being, the sort of French that turns Francis on to no end.
The father shrugs. "French," he mutters, taking in the restaurant. Peter giggles.
Francis is watching the news when Berwald reenters the room through the interior door. Peter's old enough (in a way) to have his own room in the hotel adjoining his father, though the rule is he's not allowed to lock his father out from his side; the French nation's pretty sure that idea would never occur to Peter anyway. The Swede locks his own side though, Francis standing to rise.
"You could have stayed in my house."
He shakes his head.
"Then tell me tomorrow when you're having breakfast and I'll come by."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Berwald," he says growing desperate, "speak. Please?" His tone is pleading. Berwald is, of course, unaffected by this.
He shrugs. "Don't have to go," he murmurs, pulling his sweater and shirt over his head, undershirt following before he readjusts his glasses. Even Berwald's back ripples with strength, Francis thinks, the belt coming off next.
"Do you want to talk some more?" It's hard to read the other man, and Francis isn't used to that. Normally Berwald's only wanted two things when he would come to France: information, and to talk. Francis tried to make it three things, but nothing seemed to change and so he gave up hope.
The Swede's only response is to pause before unbuttoning his pants, removing them and his socks. The pale skin seems even whiter against the dark blue boxers. "If you'd like," he mutters before climbing onto the bed, making no effort to cover his nearly-naked body as he picks up the remotes.
Taking the hint Francis blushes for having not sensed this was coming. "Is this ok? With Peter there?" Not that he wants the Swede to change his mind. It's been too long since they've done this, and they only ever did it twice in desperate moments: when Berwald lost Timo, and when Francis lost the royal family. There had been the understanding that in those moments there was no judgement, there would be no mention of stolen nights of sex ever again. They had needs and the other understood that. Like making an alliance, it had been all business.
Francis would like to make love to Berwald, just once, without the fear of the sun rising, chasing away the night and his most longed-for lover.
The Swede-in-question is biting his lower lip unconsciously, flipping to a different French news program, when he answers in that straight-forward way he has without looking up. "Don't be loud." A man of more visible emotions could have made the comment a joke; from the Nordic nation it's a simple observation meant to answer his companion's question.
It's awkward with the larger man so comfortably laying on the bed already, his gaze moving from the television to Francis. Not sure what else to do but wanting this like a teenage boy just before his first time, the Frenchman's hurried striptease lacks the elegance it normally holds. Francis feels no shame in that, because Berwald hadn't made his stripping a big deal; he hadn't even realized what the other was doing. When he gets to his pant Berwald's gaze goes back to the television, though he does shift to leave a space between his body and one arm.
He can hear the blood pumping between his ears as he crawls up beside the Swede, resting his body in the open space as the arm comes to hold Francis more securely. His head is laid gently on a large shoulder, Francis's eyes fluttering closed, one hand palming across Berwald's chest. He inhales deeply as the Swede's breathing hitches for just a moment.
"I've missed you," the Frenchman whispers after Berwald's turned the television off, silence filling the room. The lack of noise continues for several aching minutes before arms hold Francis's back tight, rolling them over.
Those lips on his are his answer, Berwald soft but demanding, just like he had been when Francis had been the one to seek him out on that desperate night centuries ago. Hands slide over flesh, some of it harder than other, until the Swedish mouth leaves his and begins its journey south.
Manicured fingers grip at the lighter blond hair, the French nation already panting, trying to stay quiet. But Berwald is too good, his fingers teasing at the band of his black briefs, tugging them down oh so slowly. Francis had thought he was patient in bed, able to drive his partner crazy like no one else, but then he'd bedded Berwald the first time and learned how wrong he was. He had been the desperate one that night, but even when it had been Berwald there was still a kind of acceptance that they have hundreds of years to wait, no need to rush.
Cold fingers and a warm mouth envelope Francis, and at that he almost screams, stifling the sound with the back of one of his hands. There are tears sliding down the sides of his face, his eyes are shut so tightly. It had been over two hundred years, hadn't it, since their last time together? Too long, his mind screams as he comes closer and closer to the edge, too long a wait for him. But when he comes, screaming into a pillow, it's like all those years have disappeared, everything else falling away around the bed except for the two men in it.
When his breathing begins to calm Francis feels the bed dip, Berwald laying beside him and holding him, wrapping him up in strong arms to hold the French head to a Swedish chest. Beneath his ear he can hear the heart racing, though his lover's face betrays none of those feelings. But when he shifts Francis can feel something else against his thighs, his hand snaking down beneath the boxers to grip Berwald's erection. He pumps him slowly, Berwald mewling, the muscles of his face so close to Francis's twitching. There's a pause where they shift to strip him of the last article of clothing either of them are wearing before Francis resumes, Berwald kissing him so lovingly the Frenchman feels like he's drowning in emotion.
His words are what really betray him, when Berwald asks, completely out of breath, "Do you want to be-" But then he groans as Francis brushes a really sensitive spot.
"No," the smaller nation sighs before kissing him. "You can."
They roll again, this time Francis laying atop Berwald. He sits to better be able to stroke the Swede as the man beneath him pulls something from his bag beside the table. He can't see what the other man is doing, but he feels it when two slicked fingers push at his entrance, causing his eyes to roll back in his head.
There are hands everywhere, touching; hips are bucking or swinging or spazzing as they inch closer, closer, closer. Suddenly Francis feels himself being pulled to Berwald's chest and this time the kiss is desperate, hard, crushing against his lips, Berwald's unoccupied hand gripping his hair so tightly he wants to cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Francis lets one hand prop him up against the chest, the other hand feeling around on the table for the condom he knows is there. His fingers make quick work of the wrapper; when Berwald is told to stop, Francis is prepared enough, he sits up and rolls the condom down the Swede's long, thick cock.
Berwald is absolutely right to have a hand over his mouth as Francis lowers himself, screaming as he takes in more and more of the man. He pauses for several seconds, his chest heaving as he breathes deeply; it had been so long since he had been the one being loved, being stimulated like this. Francis tends to be the lover taking care of another, and he has taken care of Berwald too, but even the French nation would rather be the one being loved than the one doing the loving sometimes.
He bounces for a bit, moving up and down with the assistance of two large hands on his hips. "So beautiful," Berwald murmurs and Francis has to open his eyes at that, has to meet those sea-green eyes that shine in the dark room. Now Berwald is the one crying slow tears, so Francis kisses him deeply, allowing himself to be rolled. With the new angle the Swedish nation takes over, thrusting perfectly until he seems to become desperate. The real signal is when he reaches between their bodies, taking Francis's cock in his hand and stroking it so that the Frenchman could come first.
And he does, screaming into an open-mouthed kiss, his body still on its high when Berwald comes as well, grunting in a way Francis never thought he'd like, the names of old gods falling from his lover's lips.
In the morning they'll be sore, having overexerted themselves, having too much more to do in the coming week. But with his head on Berwald's chest, strong arms holding them together tightly, that fact doesn't seem important to Francis.
He'd had sex with Berwald Oxenstierna before.
But this was the first night they'd made love.
When he wakes the body beside Francis is different: smaller, warmer, sweeter. "You look awful," Peter announces too loudly, the sound of the shower water turning off. Francis's hair is standing on end, his body sore, and his lover's son is too fucking chipper.
It had to have been love when Francis stayed.