Time is nothing.
Loss
Some days the Norwegian makes a list: on the left he writes things he has gained over the years; on the right he writes what he has lost. The right column is always longer, by far, and has been growing over the centuries now.
But as they lay in bed, Berwald inspecting the list while his free hand lazily traces the lines of Lukas's side and back, he isn't convinced that that's necessarily a bad thing, that what was on the left wasn't equal to what was on the right. Maybe life hadn't been quite as cruel as he had always told himself it had been. He'd had his Emil for so long, and a dear friend in Christen. He'd had something resembling stability for a long time, and God to rely on, and Berwald to love normally at a distance but now much closer. And he was still here after all.
"Hmm," is all he gets by way of an opinion, Berwald laying the paper out on the table beside him. Swedish arms pull Lukas to his chest, the smaller man laying there quietly and letting the warmth of his lover's body fill him.
"It is good to see my thoughts have so brought out your poetic side."
Lips kiss his head before the man sighs. "I am tired, Lukas, and you know I am not one for words. Most find me difficult to communicate with."
"I never have," the Norwegian counters, "nor have you ever had difficulty finding words to deliver to me. I know you better than that."
Berwald shrugs, spinning his glasses in his hand. "Neither of us are talkers by nature yet there is an ease with you that I hope you feel with me." Lukas's silence is his agreement. "When did the world become so complicated beloved? Remember when decisions were made by a king, and that was law?"
"Remember when you didn't wear glasses?" Berwald pulls a face and the Norwegian has to fight the urge to smile smugly at that. "I tease, I tease."
The Swede goes through his pile of papers, shuffling them, before sighing and laying back down. "So much work to do, and all of it excruciatingly boring."
"I can help, if you would like." When he gets a look Lukas elaborates. "I mean simply to assist you; no one need know I did the work. My government gives me less to do." What he wants to say is, they haven't given him anything since the Kalmar Union and it makes him feel useless.
Berwald thinks the proposal over before muttering, "I like your government. More democratic than what we have in Sweden. You have more voting men."
"Do we?" Lukas hadn't realized but feels a quiet victory at that.
"Sometimes I do believe the Swedish government is more stubborn than you, and I know for a fact the difficulty of such a feat." The Norwegian snorts.
"I think just getting an act of union proved that."
"Men never want to do as they are told," Berwald murmurs darkly.
"No, we do not."
A hand takes Lukas's, bringing it to Swedish lips to kiss. "I like this: us, here. It reminds me of unions gone by."
"We had an easier time being true to one another then."
"We had an easier time being true to ourselves then," Berwald corrects and Lukas must admit that the man is right. In so many ways perhaps all of them wear a mask: Emil, to hide the torment he watched as he grew and now feels constantly; Timo, always cheerful and yet always dissatisfied; Christen, good intentions and broken hearts and powerless. What mask did Berwald wear? What mask did Lukas wear? It was much harder to point to it and say, there it is, when the masks are always discarded when together.
"What do we have?" the Norwegian whispers, suddenly afraid.
"We have each other," Berwald replies. "The rest is nothing compared to that."