Warnings: Very brief mention of anxiety and extreme liberties taken with Berwald's accent.
It's Tuesday. It's Tuesday and it's raining.
Tino, usually a ray of undeterred sunshine, is cocooned in his car, soaking up the last of the air conditioned heat and staring mournfully out of the front window. On Tuesdays he picks up Peter from the football, they go to the supermarket and gather the necessary ingredients for a night in with family friends. But one vital component has failed. Tino has broken down. His car, usually reliable – if not somewhat old and clunky- has puttered to a stop, hissing its displeasure like a cat dropped in a bath.
So here he is, soaked to his underwear and veering close to saying words he'd never say around Peter when the rain stops drumming into his skull. He glances up, startled, and instead of the open heavens pelting down upon him finds the black waterproof canvas of an umbrella. He remembers a warm three person flat and a red umbrella leaning, mournful and forgotten, against the wall. The black umbrella is held in the gloved grasp of a tall blonde stranger, now also soaked to the bone thanks to his kindness. Tino shifts away, taking care to keep under the umbrella, and peers back towards the bonnet in the hopes that starring at the various bells and whistles will bring about some sort of epiphany. It does not. Discomfort worms its way into his chest.
The stranger shifts - he's well dressed in a dark blue duffel coat and a sharp pressed pair of business trousers that make Tino's faded jeans feel inadequate - leaning forward, brow scrunching in scrutiny.
"N'd h'lp?" He asks, handing Tino the umbrella and leaning over the engine. There's a brief flash of appreciation for well-tailored business trousers and before Tino can decline the stranger is already removing his gloves and duffel.
"S-sure." He agrees, feigning the illusion of control over the rapidly spiralling situation. He moves to the man's side, sheltering them both from the rain, and takes the proffered jacket. Methodical eyes look over the engine, clear and unclouded despite the rain covered lenses blocking his view. Tino's chest fills with warmth despite the shivers raking his body but he quashes it. Looking away and staying silent, hoping to fade into the grey of the day.
"Tools?" The stranger grunts, and Tino nods hurriedly scampering to the boot and pulling out the collection of tools Lukas insisted he keep there. Not that he has any clue what to do with them. He hands them over and brushes the damp hair from his eyes, catching the stranger's stare before it slides back to the car. Neither of them speak. The rain lulls Tino into a trance. He closes his eyes, feels a drip slide down his nose, hears the sound of rain on the umbrella and feels the steady warmth to his left. The kind stranger is staring again and Tino feels his heart dance in his chest, moving in tandem with the raindrops as they explode on the asphalt.
"B'rw'ld." The man offers, his eyes sliding back to his work.
"Tino." He replies, and the bird inside his chest throws itself against his ribcage. The coat Berwald gave him is warm, dry and smells of pine and detergent, like an embrace. Tino entertains the idea of hugging the other before giving himself a stern talking to and a reminder of the stranger danger lecture he's given to Peter (friendly boy that he is) on many occasions, thrown off by the sudden desire.
This man makes him feel unsteady. Like when he was a teen and crowds made his palms sweat and his breath quicken, but that was long ago. He is an adult now and the rhythm beating in his chest is entirely different to the anxious symphony of his teenage years. He is stable now. And safe, from the small things. But still this man makes him feel thirteen, drags up thoughts of tears on cheeks and white linoleum bathroom floors, makes him feel twenty-five and as if he's holding Peter in his arms or laughing at Lukas's deadpan humour in the wee hours of the morning. This man, Berwald. With his blue eyes and kind heart drags up all the best and worst in Tino's life and concentrates it into a sensation that feels like flying and sort of makes him want to curl up in a jumper and never leave his house again. Instead he tucks himself deeper into the swamping coat and hopes the cold can explain away the redness in his cheeks.
"Don'." Berwald states, wiping his hands on his trousers- Tino hides a wince, those trousers looked more expensive than his house- and turning to Tino. He pauses, and Tino sees a struggle in his eyes.
"Thank you, you're a life saver." He pushes on, it's getting late and he's already kept peter waiting long enough.
"'s my pl'sur'." And the battle in his eyes wages on, Tino looks away, fisting the navy jacket sleeves in his hands to stop their shaking.
"Thank you." He says again, eyes fixed on the puddle on the ground, their reflections stare back up at him in an accusing sort of manner, but Tino's heartbeat is far too loud for him to hear their allegations and he really needs to go. So he removes the jacket, hands over the umbrella and feels even more a fool when the icy rain pours down on him again.
"You must have been cold." He laughs, opening his car door. Berwald stares and the bird in Tino's chest dies. Finally he puts his jacket back on and Tino feels safe enough to climb inside his car and turn the key, the engine splutters to life under his hand and the bird – sunken now to his stomach- twitches. The door sits open and the goodbye remains unsaid and Berwald stands in the rain.
Tino has an epiphany.
A moment of clarity were he imagines things he's forbidden himself to picture. Of arms around him and the smell of pine, of Peter's laughter and the sound of heavy feet chasing little ones, of slow dancing in the kitchen and stepping on toes and easy quite understanding. He nearly slams the door, but there's a hand in the way. Berwald's stare cuts him to pieces and shrinks him down to microscopic size and although he seems not to know what to say there's no need. The bird in Tino's chest recovers and builds a nest, next to his heart.
Half an hour later he collects Peter from football, he is soaked to the bone and covered in dirt but his grin is miles wide and his eyes sparkle as he tells stories of his team mates and winning goals.
Two hours later Tino eats dinner with Peter, Lukas and Emil, his family.
One week later he finally pulls the crumpled paper from his wallet, flattening it with care against his bedsides table. He plugs the digits into his phone, it takes three tries, and counts the rings.
One month later he brings Berwald home.
It's bright out. Cold October air nips noses and chills toes inside shoes. It's a Saturday and Tino is at a football game, safe and warm inside a dark blue duffel coat that smells of pine and home, cheering on his son with his husband at his side and he thinks of days spent dancing in the kitchen and easy love and tough times. Thinks about being fifty, sixty-seven and eighty-one.
But mostly he thinks of rainy Tuesdays and everything he's grateful for and decisions he could have regretted for the rest of his life.
It's bright out on a Saturday and tonight Tino will eat dinner with his family and fall asleep beside the man he loves.
Swefin fic for the lovely Kohumi as a thanks for your kind words and encouragement!
The prompt I used was: Umbrella, insecurity and premonitions.
Basically an au were Tino is a single dad and Berwald is the well of businessman come to sweep him off his feet.
Again my apologise for hideously butchering Berwald's accent. I might wirte a sequel from his POV considering there's not very much insight into his thoughts here.
Cover image: .ru/p163978412 .htm#557167324 (remove spaces)
As always I hope you enjoyed, if so maybe leave a review?
Thanks for reading! ^_^