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hetalia2009-07-13 04:40 pm
solla-miranta.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-07-13 04:40 pm
Entry tags:
[fanfic] Breakwater
title: Breakwater
author:![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solla_miranta
characters: Sweden/Finland
rating: PG-13
warnings: -
summary: It's actually quite cold in the room. I realize it now that my feet are frozen on the floor and my fists are clenched and I'm still leaning on the wall and watching Tino, who has climbed down from the windowsill like a small, broken bird and leans his tired head against the wall.
a/n: I spent good six days writing this. It was ridiculously hard - writing from Berwald's point of view has actually never been this difficult for me. I tried to write it from Tino's POV but that just failed even more, somehow I find him harder to control. I listened hundreds of times to Benny's "Rocket in the sky" and this doesn't even have anything to do with the lyrics. I just think it's a pretty songperfect for UK/US.
I hope you enjoy reading this more than I enjoyed writing it.
Breakwater
There is snow in Tino's hair. I can see how it melts on his head, threatens to drown him or maybe just make its own marks on his face, and I am quite jealous for that. I'm sitting on the chair and watching as his mouth presses into a thin line and I'm jealous of the water. I wanted to be the one who would draw the marks on his face.
He sits down next to me and says something pointless; I've noticed that it's his favorite habit, to say something useless when he doesn't know what to say, or so I've decided to prevent myself from seeing the truth. How far we've slipped from the beautiful days and everything that used to be.
*
Tino's face is wet. I see it when he turns and the moonlight brightens his face for a while, his cheeks that shine in the light. It's cold in the room, I see it in the way he curls into himself and wraps himself tighter around his knees while sitting on the windowsill, or perhaps he is just trying to escape me. It makes me want to laugh, but it's not something you should laugh at.
"T'no," I say and try to ignore the wet lines that drip on his cheeks and disappear to his neck, "why're ya h're? Ya shoul' b'sleepin'."
His eyes glitter slowly in the fading moonlight and I clench my fists because his glittering eyes won't do anything good to me. I always start to imagine, I start to imagine, and then we're lost -
"I can do whatever I want," he snarls and I close my ears from the way his voice shivers because it doesn't mean anything, just like his wet cheeks. "I think I have the damn right to be wherever I want to."
I shrug.
"And you're disturbing me." He says it with his loud and cold voice, the one which always says go away, Berwald, I don't need you, and again I tremble slightly as I realize how much I hate that voice.
"I'll be qui't," I promise and I can see the surprise in his eyes; and I close my mouth. When I talk about the silence, Tino always knows what I'm really talking about: those moments when there's no need to speak. And they're rare. I'm always silent, I know it and I know Tino hates it more than anything else because he's always talking. When he's not talking, he needs something else to do.
"Oh."
As if I were a threat to his peaceful life and intelligence, a friend who crossed his line, and it hurts me to realize how hard it would be to Tino just a friend who crossed his line.
*
Tino leans heavily against the back of the chair and tilts it back; he is small enough to swing his chair back and forth and I've always been too big for it. He knows I think he's stupid.
"Th't swin'in'," I start and he almost looks malicious because even after these years he's known exactly my thoughts.
"Yes?" he asks and tries to reach the younger himself who used to nag at me when I tried to teach him to behave better and never succeeded, but he doesn't quite sound like back then.
"Ya n'ver stopp'd it," I say and the corner of his lip curls upwards slightly.
"I didn't."
He looks at me like he's going to say more but he probably never will. I don't bother to talk because for us it always means crossing the line and I haven't done that for decades and thus I am too incapable to do it now. It's strange how the wars have torn us apart and built a wall between us, a strong wall which prevents me from standing up and wiping the water from his face. I'd like to make my own marks on him, but I can't because there is too much between us. I've seldom cared about that but now the wars are weighing my thoughts and actions and movements and it's useless to even imagine saying anything true to him.
"Y'look tir'd," I say instead of everything I can't say. You look tired, tired like years back when I tried to comfort you in my clumsy way, my hands in your hair, and tried to pretend like everything would end well. And you never believed. You were right, so damn right, you were -
"It's been hard," he replies and doesn't turn his gaze away. "Perhaps I got too used to... that the times were so much easier, well, almost pleasant... it feels difficult to experience it all again..."
"Pain," I finish. He looks at me, surprised and for a while he looks almost like back then, almost young, almost like that frightened boy who I told that everything isn't so bad.
"It's not worst," he says when I've become nearly comfortable with the silence. "It's not the pain. The worst is that I don't know what to do or who I am. That I can't... do anything."
The snow glistens on his face even though it has long since melted and drowned on the floors, the floors I should hate but I can't, and it just feels so weird to meet Tino here.
"And how I always see the wounds," he says almost thoughtfully, even though pain is clear in his eyes. Like before. "After this all, I still have the wounds, I have the scars - and they sometimes still bleed, and the house is so small and empty..."
I close my eyes. I never liked blood, and even though we had to get used to seeing it, it was always hard for me. Tino was good with blood; he accepted it and always treated my wounds when I hurt myself and tried to breathe in slowly and ignore the fact that I was again so damn weak that I felt ashamed.
And I feel ashamed now, ashamed to see how his gaze slips away and disappears in the pain and I don't have words to help.
*
It's actually quite cold in the room. I realize it now that my feet are frozen on the floor and my fists are clenched and I'm still leaning on the wall and watching Tino, who has climbed down from the windowsill like a small, broken bird and leans his tired head against the wall. And I watch him like I used to, a little brother, or so I want to believe - that I am just a big brother now that he's tired and his face is wet, and that I don't have this strange feeling which sparkles in my stomach, and I know what Tino would say about it all. Don't imagine.
"Are you going to be there forever?" he asks.
I could answer yes, but that would be too honest and I know that he doesn't want it. He never wants it or he's just too afraid like I conclude later for my own defense.
"Ar' ya?"
"I don't know," he says, sounding almost confused. "It depends."
"On wh't?"
"My mood, if I'm feeling like leaving."
"Why w'uldn't ya?"
"I don't know," he says again and looks so uncertain that I pity him -
And the pit of my stomach sparkles against my lungs, my blood boils and I watch as his confused expression fades into the twilight; I realize that he's now standing with his back towards the moon and I can't see the wet lines on his cheeks.
"T'no," I say and I know I shouldn't, but I still do, "h've ya been cryin'?"
He shrugs and laughs bitterly, "What does it look like?"
"Mayb' a littl'," I say diplomatically.
"So what?" As if I had hurt his feelings.
"I d'n't say ya c'n't cry," I add and it's true, I haven't. "Why shoul' I leav'?"
He shrugs again and presses his head again against the wall so that his mouth is open and it looks like he's gasping for air, imagining that oxygen doesn't find its way into his veins. I can't know if he really is imagining so. Tino has always had a strange way to imagine all kinds of things and above all he imagines that we can never be anything else... anything... I lean on the wall and wait for an answer to my question. Why should I leave if I want to be here and something if he'd just let it happen? I wait and when he finally answers, it suddenly breaks me and leaves me gasping for air just like him.
"Hold me," he says.
And it's not said, of course, not by us, but there he is and raises his gaze from my shoes to my face. And his eyes are glittering in the moonlight and maybe my eyes are too, but it's certainly not because of tears but the pit of my stomach which is making somersaults like it could die from happiness. I try to make it calm down but it won't obey, and from Tino's expression I can see how he becomes worried when I'm not there for him after all.
"Of course if you don't -" he starts apologetically and his voice breaks me even more and I wonder how he does it as I hurry to answer.
"No, 'course I... 'm j'st... surpris'd..."
He nods. I switch my feet and try to decide what to do, should I go near him or not, but since he's given me permission, of course I go. Tino is thin and he leans into me slightly. I tremble. He trembles as well but it's hard to notice if you're trembling yourself, too. And thus we both tremble and I'm not cold, but he is and that I can notice in his pale face and blood on his lower lip. And I blink; I don't like blood.
"Yar lip's bleed'n'," I whisper carefully.
His eyes go wide; he knows what blood does to me even though it shouldn't because I am supposed to be the strong and fearless one. There is a crazy thought in my mind: maybe he bit his lip on purpose, maybe he wants to drive me away with bleeding because he doesn't want to say he doesn't want me -
But I'm not going to obey, no when he's practically given me permission to be close to him and that's what I want, don't I?
"I guess I bit it," he says and touches his bloody lip with his finger. I grimace and I can't help it, it's probably the moonlight that makes him so eery, and I press my own finger on his lip and feel as it trembles.
"Berwald," he says. I don't want to hear, I don't want to hear once again how unhappy we should be and how everything is wrecked; I want to make him believe in better tomorrow and that some day we will win. Everything. Maybe even ourselves. I lean closer to him, so close that I can almost feel his shaking in myself, his fearful shaking which should throw me away but it doesn't, and I taste blood on his lips. His lips are parted, he breathes heavily, but he doesn't push me away, not even though I press my forehead against his face and enjoy the iron taste of blood in my mouth and it drives me almost mad with the thought that a part of Tino is in me.
"Berwald."
It's almost like a blame but not quite, not now when he whispers it through his parted lips, the ones that are still almost against mine. I withdraw a bit, only a little, and I feel that his shoulders are too thin to carry the weight of the world on them; I touch them with my fingers and I feel his collarbone and it makes him startle as I pull him to my chest and bury my face into his hair.
"Feels n'ce," I mutter and he tenses with uncertainty and then laughs because he obviously doesn't know what else to do. "Ya don't 'gree w'th 'e?"
"I do," he says, "but... but..."
I listen to his but's quietly, wait as they to sink into my mind and make me tear myself away from him, but it doesn't happen. He coughes and probably tries to come up with a good way to make me understand, but now I don't get him. I rub his shoulder and wait for his words even though I suddenly know that they can't affect me.
*
Tino is always like that, imagines that he is humble and wears long-sleeved shirts. But I am used to it and with the permission of the past years I follow him to the living room, reach him under an old bookshelf - he used to be afraid it would fall on him - and pull his sleeve up.
"Don't you dare," he snarls and tries to wrench his arm back, but I'm still strong after all these years when I couldn't check him occasionally. I don't answer him. "Berwald," he continues as if he's talking to a little child. "It's not your problem. It might not be easy to live with these wounds, but I can deal with it and..."
But I'm not listening anymore; I run my fingers on the wounds that are slowly healing on his rough skin. They travel along his arm and it's hard for me to imagine where else he has been hurt this badly. When my hand goes furthuer up, he suddenly jerks and then looks away from me as I drop his arm, feeling confused.
"Do's it h'rt th't m'ch?" I ask worriedly and of course it would be easier for me to hear that of course it doesn't, but usually Tino still told the truth.
"Actually no," he says now, years older, but still he is clearly Tino as he frowns like he doesn't understand and he doesn't stand that, I know. "I... I just..."
"St'rtl'd," I say helpfully.
His gaze pauses at my eyes and I realize what it means. That he startled. But when that thought lands on my mind, it's not as unfamiliar as I thought it would be because we've been so damn far from each other for decades and after that only good friends from the childhood. The thought is suddenly very familiar, it makes the blood rush in my veins as if I were young again and believing in happiness, and it makes Tino look away.
"Quit' a figh'," I say, referring to his wounds because I know that he doesn't want to be in the thoughts where I just drowned.
He shrugs. "It's always like that. Even though it doesn't... look... it's actually kind of easier to endure now that you're here again."
I look at the painting on the wall. It's tilted. So is my smile, I know it, and I feel good to be here too.
Tino startles again.
*
Tino's cheeks are still wet. My fingers wipe them, but even in the dark I realize that tears just keep coming and it's useless to even try and wipe them away. It feels bad because while we're sitting on that floor and the moon is shining on his hair and my back, I don't feel like crying but I actually would like to laugh, and I'd like to drown my laughter against his neck, but how could I if he cries?
"T'no," I say slowly because I'm never sure when I should use that name and when I shouldn't. Sometimes it's easier to call him Finland, it keeps me safely away, but right now I don't want that. "Yar cryin' ag'in."
He wipes a few tears away furiously. "Damnit. Don't care about it. It's just.. just..."
"Wh't?" I ask when his words trail off.
He leans on me and I can hear his heartbeats even though sometimes it's hard to separate my owns from his. He still has tears on his cheeks and that I know because he presses his cheek against my neck and probably doesn't notice how my heartbeats speed up and leave his heartbeats far behind, as if they were racing and I've already won.
"I'm just scared," he whispers finally to the empty wall.
"It's 'kay," I say and let my fingers tangle in his hair, I hear his breathing heavy and real and it makes me want to be more here, be here with each cell. And I want to hold him like a bird that has broken his wings, and I guess he is like that when he's completely quiet.
"Look T'ino," I say, "we'll surv've. Mir'cles do happ'n."
Perhaps I thought it was a pretty thing to say but it's not as Tino nods awkwardly with his nose still against my neck and pulls away slightly. His moves make me tense - am I going to lose him now, so quickly - but not anymore when he lifts my hands behind his neck and turns towards me so that our eyes meet. And my hands on his neck and my heart which obviously doesn't know where it should be speeds up again.
He stares at me and in his eyes I see that he's terrified, afraid of something unknown. But he's not afraid of me as I wipe all the tears from his cheeks and pause for a while in front of his eyes just so that he sees what I think and understands. And when he breathes in, I breathe with him.
The moon plays on the floor and so do we.
author:
solla_miranta characters: Sweden/Finland
rating: PG-13
warnings: -
summary: It's actually quite cold in the room. I realize it now that my feet are frozen on the floor and my fists are clenched and I'm still leaning on the wall and watching Tino, who has climbed down from the windowsill like a small, broken bird and leans his tired head against the wall.
a/n: I spent good six days writing this. It was ridiculously hard - writing from Berwald's point of view has actually never been this difficult for me. I tried to write it from Tino's POV but that just failed even more, somehow I find him harder to control. I listened hundreds of times to Benny's "Rocket in the sky" and this doesn't even have anything to do with the lyrics. I just think it's a pretty song
I hope you enjoy reading this more than I enjoyed writing it.
Breakwater
There is snow in Tino's hair. I can see how it melts on his head, threatens to drown him or maybe just make its own marks on his face, and I am quite jealous for that. I'm sitting on the chair and watching as his mouth presses into a thin line and I'm jealous of the water. I wanted to be the one who would draw the marks on his face.
He sits down next to me and says something pointless; I've noticed that it's his favorite habit, to say something useless when he doesn't know what to say, or so I've decided to prevent myself from seeing the truth. How far we've slipped from the beautiful days and everything that used to be.
*
Tino's face is wet. I see it when he turns and the moonlight brightens his face for a while, his cheeks that shine in the light. It's cold in the room, I see it in the way he curls into himself and wraps himself tighter around his knees while sitting on the windowsill, or perhaps he is just trying to escape me. It makes me want to laugh, but it's not something you should laugh at.
"T'no," I say and try to ignore the wet lines that drip on his cheeks and disappear to his neck, "why're ya h're? Ya shoul' b'sleepin'."
His eyes glitter slowly in the fading moonlight and I clench my fists because his glittering eyes won't do anything good to me. I always start to imagine, I start to imagine, and then we're lost -
"I can do whatever I want," he snarls and I close my ears from the way his voice shivers because it doesn't mean anything, just like his wet cheeks. "I think I have the damn right to be wherever I want to."
I shrug.
"And you're disturbing me." He says it with his loud and cold voice, the one which always says go away, Berwald, I don't need you, and again I tremble slightly as I realize how much I hate that voice.
"I'll be qui't," I promise and I can see the surprise in his eyes; and I close my mouth. When I talk about the silence, Tino always knows what I'm really talking about: those moments when there's no need to speak. And they're rare. I'm always silent, I know it and I know Tino hates it more than anything else because he's always talking. When he's not talking, he needs something else to do.
"Oh."
As if I were a threat to his peaceful life and intelligence, a friend who crossed his line, and it hurts me to realize how hard it would be to Tino just a friend who crossed his line.
*
Tino leans heavily against the back of the chair and tilts it back; he is small enough to swing his chair back and forth and I've always been too big for it. He knows I think he's stupid.
"Th't swin'in'," I start and he almost looks malicious because even after these years he's known exactly my thoughts.
"Yes?" he asks and tries to reach the younger himself who used to nag at me when I tried to teach him to behave better and never succeeded, but he doesn't quite sound like back then.
"Ya n'ver stopp'd it," I say and the corner of his lip curls upwards slightly.
"I didn't."
He looks at me like he's going to say more but he probably never will. I don't bother to talk because for us it always means crossing the line and I haven't done that for decades and thus I am too incapable to do it now. It's strange how the wars have torn us apart and built a wall between us, a strong wall which prevents me from standing up and wiping the water from his face. I'd like to make my own marks on him, but I can't because there is too much between us. I've seldom cared about that but now the wars are weighing my thoughts and actions and movements and it's useless to even imagine saying anything true to him.
"Y'look tir'd," I say instead of everything I can't say. You look tired, tired like years back when I tried to comfort you in my clumsy way, my hands in your hair, and tried to pretend like everything would end well. And you never believed. You were right, so damn right, you were -
"It's been hard," he replies and doesn't turn his gaze away. "Perhaps I got too used to... that the times were so much easier, well, almost pleasant... it feels difficult to experience it all again..."
"Pain," I finish. He looks at me, surprised and for a while he looks almost like back then, almost young, almost like that frightened boy who I told that everything isn't so bad.
"It's not worst," he says when I've become nearly comfortable with the silence. "It's not the pain. The worst is that I don't know what to do or who I am. That I can't... do anything."
The snow glistens on his face even though it has long since melted and drowned on the floors, the floors I should hate but I can't, and it just feels so weird to meet Tino here.
"And how I always see the wounds," he says almost thoughtfully, even though pain is clear in his eyes. Like before. "After this all, I still have the wounds, I have the scars - and they sometimes still bleed, and the house is so small and empty..."
I close my eyes. I never liked blood, and even though we had to get used to seeing it, it was always hard for me. Tino was good with blood; he accepted it and always treated my wounds when I hurt myself and tried to breathe in slowly and ignore the fact that I was again so damn weak that I felt ashamed.
And I feel ashamed now, ashamed to see how his gaze slips away and disappears in the pain and I don't have words to help.
*
It's actually quite cold in the room. I realize it now that my feet are frozen on the floor and my fists are clenched and I'm still leaning on the wall and watching Tino, who has climbed down from the windowsill like a small, broken bird and leans his tired head against the wall. And I watch him like I used to, a little brother, or so I want to believe - that I am just a big brother now that he's tired and his face is wet, and that I don't have this strange feeling which sparkles in my stomach, and I know what Tino would say about it all. Don't imagine.
"Are you going to be there forever?" he asks.
I could answer yes, but that would be too honest and I know that he doesn't want it. He never wants it or he's just too afraid like I conclude later for my own defense.
"Ar' ya?"
"I don't know," he says, sounding almost confused. "It depends."
"On wh't?"
"My mood, if I'm feeling like leaving."
"Why w'uldn't ya?"
"I don't know," he says again and looks so uncertain that I pity him -
And the pit of my stomach sparkles against my lungs, my blood boils and I watch as his confused expression fades into the twilight; I realize that he's now standing with his back towards the moon and I can't see the wet lines on his cheeks.
"T'no," I say and I know I shouldn't, but I still do, "h've ya been cryin'?"
He shrugs and laughs bitterly, "What does it look like?"
"Mayb' a littl'," I say diplomatically.
"So what?" As if I had hurt his feelings.
"I d'n't say ya c'n't cry," I add and it's true, I haven't. "Why shoul' I leav'?"
He shrugs again and presses his head again against the wall so that his mouth is open and it looks like he's gasping for air, imagining that oxygen doesn't find its way into his veins. I can't know if he really is imagining so. Tino has always had a strange way to imagine all kinds of things and above all he imagines that we can never be anything else... anything... I lean on the wall and wait for an answer to my question. Why should I leave if I want to be here and something if he'd just let it happen? I wait and when he finally answers, it suddenly breaks me and leaves me gasping for air just like him.
"Hold me," he says.
And it's not said, of course, not by us, but there he is and raises his gaze from my shoes to my face. And his eyes are glittering in the moonlight and maybe my eyes are too, but it's certainly not because of tears but the pit of my stomach which is making somersaults like it could die from happiness. I try to make it calm down but it won't obey, and from Tino's expression I can see how he becomes worried when I'm not there for him after all.
"Of course if you don't -" he starts apologetically and his voice breaks me even more and I wonder how he does it as I hurry to answer.
"No, 'course I... 'm j'st... surpris'd..."
He nods. I switch my feet and try to decide what to do, should I go near him or not, but since he's given me permission, of course I go. Tino is thin and he leans into me slightly. I tremble. He trembles as well but it's hard to notice if you're trembling yourself, too. And thus we both tremble and I'm not cold, but he is and that I can notice in his pale face and blood on his lower lip. And I blink; I don't like blood.
"Yar lip's bleed'n'," I whisper carefully.
His eyes go wide; he knows what blood does to me even though it shouldn't because I am supposed to be the strong and fearless one. There is a crazy thought in my mind: maybe he bit his lip on purpose, maybe he wants to drive me away with bleeding because he doesn't want to say he doesn't want me -
But I'm not going to obey, no when he's practically given me permission to be close to him and that's what I want, don't I?
"I guess I bit it," he says and touches his bloody lip with his finger. I grimace and I can't help it, it's probably the moonlight that makes him so eery, and I press my own finger on his lip and feel as it trembles.
"Berwald," he says. I don't want to hear, I don't want to hear once again how unhappy we should be and how everything is wrecked; I want to make him believe in better tomorrow and that some day we will win. Everything. Maybe even ourselves. I lean closer to him, so close that I can almost feel his shaking in myself, his fearful shaking which should throw me away but it doesn't, and I taste blood on his lips. His lips are parted, he breathes heavily, but he doesn't push me away, not even though I press my forehead against his face and enjoy the iron taste of blood in my mouth and it drives me almost mad with the thought that a part of Tino is in me.
"Berwald."
It's almost like a blame but not quite, not now when he whispers it through his parted lips, the ones that are still almost against mine. I withdraw a bit, only a little, and I feel that his shoulders are too thin to carry the weight of the world on them; I touch them with my fingers and I feel his collarbone and it makes him startle as I pull him to my chest and bury my face into his hair.
"Feels n'ce," I mutter and he tenses with uncertainty and then laughs because he obviously doesn't know what else to do. "Ya don't 'gree w'th 'e?"
"I do," he says, "but... but..."
I listen to his but's quietly, wait as they to sink into my mind and make me tear myself away from him, but it doesn't happen. He coughes and probably tries to come up with a good way to make me understand, but now I don't get him. I rub his shoulder and wait for his words even though I suddenly know that they can't affect me.
*
Tino is always like that, imagines that he is humble and wears long-sleeved shirts. But I am used to it and with the permission of the past years I follow him to the living room, reach him under an old bookshelf - he used to be afraid it would fall on him - and pull his sleeve up.
"Don't you dare," he snarls and tries to wrench his arm back, but I'm still strong after all these years when I couldn't check him occasionally. I don't answer him. "Berwald," he continues as if he's talking to a little child. "It's not your problem. It might not be easy to live with these wounds, but I can deal with it and..."
But I'm not listening anymore; I run my fingers on the wounds that are slowly healing on his rough skin. They travel along his arm and it's hard for me to imagine where else he has been hurt this badly. When my hand goes furthuer up, he suddenly jerks and then looks away from me as I drop his arm, feeling confused.
"Do's it h'rt th't m'ch?" I ask worriedly and of course it would be easier for me to hear that of course it doesn't, but usually Tino still told the truth.
"Actually no," he says now, years older, but still he is clearly Tino as he frowns like he doesn't understand and he doesn't stand that, I know. "I... I just..."
"St'rtl'd," I say helpfully.
His gaze pauses at my eyes and I realize what it means. That he startled. But when that thought lands on my mind, it's not as unfamiliar as I thought it would be because we've been so damn far from each other for decades and after that only good friends from the childhood. The thought is suddenly very familiar, it makes the blood rush in my veins as if I were young again and believing in happiness, and it makes Tino look away.
"Quit' a figh'," I say, referring to his wounds because I know that he doesn't want to be in the thoughts where I just drowned.
He shrugs. "It's always like that. Even though it doesn't... look... it's actually kind of easier to endure now that you're here again."
I look at the painting on the wall. It's tilted. So is my smile, I know it, and I feel good to be here too.
Tino startles again.
*
Tino's cheeks are still wet. My fingers wipe them, but even in the dark I realize that tears just keep coming and it's useless to even try and wipe them away. It feels bad because while we're sitting on that floor and the moon is shining on his hair and my back, I don't feel like crying but I actually would like to laugh, and I'd like to drown my laughter against his neck, but how could I if he cries?
"T'no," I say slowly because I'm never sure when I should use that name and when I shouldn't. Sometimes it's easier to call him Finland, it keeps me safely away, but right now I don't want that. "Yar cryin' ag'in."
He wipes a few tears away furiously. "Damnit. Don't care about it. It's just.. just..."
"Wh't?" I ask when his words trail off.
He leans on me and I can hear his heartbeats even though sometimes it's hard to separate my owns from his. He still has tears on his cheeks and that I know because he presses his cheek against my neck and probably doesn't notice how my heartbeats speed up and leave his heartbeats far behind, as if they were racing and I've already won.
"I'm just scared," he whispers finally to the empty wall.
"It's 'kay," I say and let my fingers tangle in his hair, I hear his breathing heavy and real and it makes me want to be more here, be here with each cell. And I want to hold him like a bird that has broken his wings, and I guess he is like that when he's completely quiet.
"Look T'ino," I say, "we'll surv've. Mir'cles do happ'n."
Perhaps I thought it was a pretty thing to say but it's not as Tino nods awkwardly with his nose still against my neck and pulls away slightly. His moves make me tense - am I going to lose him now, so quickly - but not anymore when he lifts my hands behind his neck and turns towards me so that our eyes meet. And my hands on his neck and my heart which obviously doesn't know where it should be speeds up again.
He stares at me and in his eyes I see that he's terrified, afraid of something unknown. But he's not afraid of me as I wipe all the tears from his cheeks and pause for a while in front of his eyes just so that he sees what I think and understands. And when he breathes in, I breathe with him.
The moon plays on the floor and so do we.
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Yes, Tino, why so tsundere and so hard to write?!? DDD:
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Ah, the same here, I was feeling really sad when I read this fic... Though sometimes is heartbreaking, but this one just filled my heart and I was jumping all over my bedroom and grinning, like a... dumb <-< and saying everywhere 'Suxfin is the best couple ever, like AMO EL SUXFIN, AMO EL SUXFIN, AMO EL SUXFIN, YEEEH -madre: ROMINA, BAJA LA VOZ, ESTAMOS DURMEINDO
so, yeh, ^^
ah-- I think Fin is hard to write because of his multiple faces <-< yeh, yopu know, a total yandere, then also tsundere, and we hace that happy-go-lucky boiy, scary guy, dpeendete/indenpendet guy. I think his way of being is delicious and soo interesting :D
anyways, long commnet, haha
so, now you know ;D
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Aww, that's really sweet of you. ♥ And you're right, SuFin is such a nice pairing - they have their happy moments but their story is also quite of a tragedy... Maybe that's why I like them so much.
Yes, Finland does have many different sides to him, depending on the situation and the person he's interacting with. :) Like this one traditional Finnish song says, "The son of Finland has strength to work in his fields, the cold wilderness he clears for his fields with his power; in the times of peace he is joyous, the man in the war is courageous." So I think that Finland is rather happy when he's not threatened.
Oh, I love long comments~~