Names used: Sweden (Berwald Oxenstierna), Norway (Lukas Bondevik), Denmark (Christen Densen), Iceland (Emil Steilsson), Finland (Timo Väinämöinen), Sealand (Peter Kirkland)
Author's note: This didn't take over a month to write, what are you talking about? :| The idea came to me when I painted my nails like Swedish flags, and I've been struggling to get it down just right since then, so I don't remember if each part is what I had exactly intended but I like it. (Also much more sex than I had intended but if I was Berwald's lover I wouldn't let him leave the bedroom.) I love SuFin but I prefer them showed with more depth than I normally find in fics (which is something my reviewers tend to feel as well from what you've all written me), so here's my ode to changing that. Much more Berwald coming because he is quickly stealing my heart, if you couldn't tell.
Also, I couldn't find any SuFin fics with saunas. Maybe I suck at searching, but this is a horrendous problem I here intend to correct. Even if I agree with Peter on them not being fun.
When they get back from the world meeting, Timo throws himself onto the couch, joining a very happy Hanatamago. Berwald is normally tense right now, and though Timo knows plenty of ways to calm him the Swedish nation really does best with a nice warm shower, work still left to finish most Friday afternoons.
But Timo is done for the week as he kicks off his shoes. While Berwald showers Timo tidies up, putting away their dirty clothes, changing into warm sweatpants he would never let anyone but Berwald see, not even Peter, pulling one of Berwald's old t-shirts over his tiny frame. The bathroom mirror is all fogged up as he takes several items from the medicine cabinet. A voice rings out from the shower where steam hides the naked body he loves so much.
"Timo, I'm sorry for calling you my wife." Or at least, that's what he knows Berwald means to say; after hundreds of years with the man, he has finally mastered understanding his speech.
"It's ok Be," and he is glad that at least this time the Swede caught himself. "I just don't like being called your wife in public is all, you know that."
"I know," Berwald groans, and Timo knows he is mentally beating himself up. Another thing Timo's learned over hundreds of years is that there is no way to stop Berwald from doing that. All he can do is wait for him to seek out the Finn, who will kiss him and hold him until Berwald forgets what had had him upset.
Hanatamago is quite happy, running around in circles, as Timo bends over leaning on his knees. His feet are on the coffee table being covered in a blue nail polish and when he's done he stretches his legs out over that table. No point running the risk of getting fluffy white hair stuck to his nails and turning Hana a funny color; he's had too many weekends where that was the case to risk it anymore.
His hands are next, Berwald moving around in the office somewhere off in the distance. Timo waits for him to finish his work, allowing the blue to dry on his hands too. The truth is, Timo doesn't care that he's Berwald's wife. He just knows the other nations would never understand.
They are all so… masculine. Even Elizabeta, she'd kick any of their asses, even (perhaps mainly) Roderich's. Timo used to try and be masculine too, thinking that that was what was expected of him as a nation incarnate. But Berwald doesn't care, still holds him all the same no matter what. It's taken a long time, centuries, but Timo doesn't care anymore that's he's got an effeminate side. Only with Berwald, only on the weekend, does he let that side shine through.
By the time Berwald is done with work and changed into the clothes Timo had left out for him, the blue is all done drying. A large body snuggles up next to him on the couch as Timo finishes with the yellow stripes on his toes, forming a Nordic cross on each foot. But he can just never get his hands right, and so Berwald does them for him with his steady hands, the larger arms wrapped around Timo's tiny frame. Berwald kisses his forehead as he finishes; Timo knows he loves seeing the Swedish flag painted on those Finnish nails, knows it drives the larger man crazy. It's always worth it, every Friday; these nails are only for the weekend.
"Miss this during the week," Berwald mutters, and Timo turns his face up to catch those lips. Warm Swedish hands stroke the Finnish neck while Finnish hands sneak up his shirt to play with Swedish stomach muscles. Timo can hardly breathe when his husband pulls back, because breathing is much less important than indulging in his favorite Swedish treat: Berwald Oxenstierna.
They sit on the couch for a while, quiet, content, watching each other. Timo loves how strong Berwald is, loves his muscles and stature and masculinity, how much the opposite of him his lover is. As those sea-green eyes take him in, he feels all the pressure of the week fly away. Berwald takes his hand, kissing each knuckle separately. Berwald loves that Timo only lets him see this side, sweatpants and nail polish and messy hair. He knows the Swedish nation always worries, about him, about them, about everything. On the weekend, though, they have nothing to worry about.
"So," Timo finally starts, breaking the silence, "what should we have for dinner?" Berwald smiles at that.
Timo can't stop moaning as Berwald massages his feet. He's leaning against the arm of the couch, his legs over his strong lover's. The TV has the news on, and somehow Berwald is both listening to it and groaning in response to the Finn's noises. It's become a contest, in Timo's mind, him versus the TV, a show-down every Friday night. Timo tries to see if he can get Berwald to give up on the news before the program ends, throwing his head back and letting out an over-the-top moan. Against his calf he feels Berwald's hardening response, and knows he is quickly winning this week's match. Not that he's ever lost.
The weather forecast is always the best part of the news since Berwald doesn't care for it much; Timo supposes, if he was built like a mountain, things like temperature and precipitation wouldn't matter much to him either. So instead the weather forecast always features Berwald massaging his way up Timo's legs, and there's nothing faked in the groan that escapes him as Berwald finally reaches his thighs. Timo shifts until his ass is pressed into his lover's legs, spreading his own legs to give Berwald better access.
"Be," Timo whimpers. It's normal that they don't get to touch during the week, don't get to have sex. They're always so busy with work and Peter and Hana, and Timo has to spend a certain number of days in Finland every week, but it isn't the same as being in Sweden. For one thing, Berwald isn't with him, and anywhere Berwald isn't is the wrong place for Timo to be.
The second reason is that Finland doesn't recognize same-sex marriage yet, but Sweden does. At first they didn't talk about it; they had been in a relationship for so long already, it seemed silly to need to rush off and get married. But when Peter hurt himself and the hospital wouldn't let Timo in, Berwald brought the topic up. Timo didn't need a ring, but Berwald wanted to protect his family.
The one condition the Finnish nation had had was that it couldn't be just about the legal ramifications. They couldn't just say let's go and get married because they could now. He wanted there to be some romance to it still, and so Berwald had taken him on a date after a meeting in Paris, proposing in the garden of some palace. Watching his big Swede stutter through his feelings had made Timo cry; how could he say no after that? The wait had been well worth it.
They didn't tell the other nations, didn't see the point to it. When they got married it was just them and Hana and Peter, who did immediately run off and tell every nation he could. For once the other nations recognized him, and Timo had woken to a house full of congratulation cards, his voicemail overflowing. They still haven't said anything, to the other nations. Berwald will slip up and call Timo his wife in public, but he's been doing that for years now. No one says anything about the silver wedding rings they both wear.
A warm hand pushes his shirt up as the TV is turned off, and tonight Timo has once again won. In the dark he hears Berwald whisper that he needs him, picking up the Finn and carrying him to their bedroom.
On Friday nights there is nothing slow once they reach the bedroom.
On Friday nights they finally touch, finally feel, finally have what they've waited all week for.
On Friday nights Timo remembers just how much Berwald needs him, and how they can't live without each other.
They had gotten married on a Saturday, the only day of the week where they could be left alone. Since then, every Saturday has been reserved for just the two of them: no Peter, no Nords barging in, no visitors. Just a weekly anniversary.
Timo normally wakes to find Berwald already outside, building something, or tinkering on a repair in one of the rooms. While his husband works the Finn cooks his way through a large breakfast until Berwald comes back, famished. It still amazes him sometimes how much Berwald can eat, whipping through his dishes while the Finn sips at hot chocolate, nibbling at bread. Timo normally eats along the way, trying each dish, and though he still isn't satisfied with his cooking, it never slows down Berwald.
Finished, the Swede reclines in his chair, his head tossed back, glasses slipping dangerously away from his face while he rubs his stomach. That never fails to make Timo laugh, and he can see his husband smiling at the sound. "I love your cooking," Berwald manages before sitting up, leaning over the table to steal a kiss and rising to clear the dishes away. Timo watches him work before they go upstairs to change.
It's unseasonably warm so they go out for a walk through the forrest out back, stopping every once and a while for a spontaneous grope and make-out session, before Timo giggles and Berwald blushes and they carry on. When they return to their garden, the couple lay in the grass, letting the sun warm their skin. Timo's laying on his stomach, his eyes closed, when he hears a rustling next to him that indicates Berwald has removed his shirt. The thought makes him smirk, and his mouth only grins wider when he feels Berwald come to lay on top of him.
"You're so pretty," Berwald murmurs into his hair, his hands running up and down Timo's sides under his sweater. Timo is curvy, much more curvy than the other Nordic nations, who are all straight lines and right angles. It used to bother him but now, now he knows it's one of those things Berwald cherishes most. Those large hands run up and down his waist, fingers bending with the dips in a way that is all Finnish wife. Timo pushes his ass up into Berwald, who grinds down in response, his erection pushing hard into his wife's ass. No doubt that Berwald likes his curves, that's for sure.
They make love on the lawn, no houses around to see them; it's something they love about this house, far from the hustle and bustle of any major city where eyes can watch them at every turn. Timo's chest is so hot under the sun, his shirt thrown somewhere, as Berwald sucks his cock into his mouth. He's afraid of getting sunburn but his hands lock themselves in blond hair and he somehow forgets all about protecting his skin in favor of enjoying a tongue running up and down his shaft, a warmth enveloping his member.
Once Berwald has spent himself inside his lover, he collapses on the small chest, his hands running up and down Timo's soft thighs and wide hips. Berwald is built like some sort of god of days gone by; even his back muscles are hard under Timo's fingers as the Swede kisses his fleshy neck, burying his face in a Finnish shoulder. For a long while they lay like that, until Timo decides Berwald's back is too warm and he may as well start lunch.
Peter has never liked the sauna, which means they normally use it on Saturday afternoons; while they would like to go in more often, only the weekend affords them enough time as nations to stop and relax and enjoy.
Timo likes to lay on the lower bench, his face covered with a towel. It's slightly cooler lower down, and Berwald is capable of taking a much higher heat than Timo thinks he's ever managed. Once Berwald's settled in, having raised the temperature to where he likes it, he sits above Timo on the upper bench, nudging the smaller nation with his foot. It's his signal to start; the Finn could talk for hours about his week, and only in the sauna does he feel enough energy returning to him to talk for so long. Berwald grunts and ums as he speaks, until the Finn is done filling his husband in on the few days they spent apart. Slowly the Swedes retells his week without Timo, which normally centers on how much he missed his wife, how beautiful he is, how he never wants to be without him…. In that sauna it's never corny, because Timo knows every word comes from Berwald's heart. The words always do with Berwald Oxenstierna, something that only his husband is capable of among all the nations.
"I like your body," Berwald murmurs, and immediately Timo feels his face burn with a blush that's only hidden by the towel across his face. In fact it's the only part of his body that's covered, and he knows the real reason Berwald likes sitting above him is to get a better view of his naked body laid out before the Swede. But Timo has a "no sex in the sauna" rule because the truth is, Berwald is brazen enough to try sex anywhere. So the Finn lays there, eyes taking him in, and after a while he embraces the watching. He yawns and stretches, arching his back. He spreads his legs wide before bringing them back. He lets one hand wonder down his chest, scooting around his cock to massage one thigh.
He's pretty sure Berwald's never realized that his groans are out loud.
When they're done, Timo ready for his shower, he feels Berwald grab him from behind. Their bodies are sweaty and he's hot all over already; where their skin now meets Timo feels on fire. But those hands are too good, too practiced from years and years together. They make love for the third time in 24-hours, against the sauna's exterior wall. Berwald's arms separate his back from the rough wood, and he repays the Swede with a handjob before preparing himself. Somehow his lover's size still elicits a yelp of surprise from Timo, one of Berwald's large hands catching the Finnish head as he throws it back, being filled completely. It's slow but rough, his husband's body holding him up. Once they've both finished Timo kisses at Berwald's neck, pressing their chests together to feel their hearts beat.
"I love you Be," Timo whispers as Berwald carries him to the cold shower. That wins Timo a kiss.
Tonight's the night they both cook, Timo his favorite Finnish dishes that Berwald likes, Berwald his favorite Swedish dishes that Timo can't live without now. Everything tastes so much better, not just because someone else made it, but because they can take their time. They cook the food slowly, leisurely, eating it much the same way. Berwald normally finishes first, by nature of being equal to roughly three Timos, which means he massages his wife's feet under the table while Timo finishes his meal. Dinner on Saturday is always the best.
When the dishes are away, the kitchen clean, the doors and windows locked for the night, they finally meet in a frenzy of passion. Timo walks backward as Berwald guides him, clothes being shed along the way to the bedroom. By the time Timo's legs meet the bed, his body falling onto it, only his briefs are left. Berwald looms over him, his eyes lusty, his face full of desire; Timo has briefs printed with a Swedish flag, briefs he only wears on Saturdays because it drives his husband up the wall. Finnish hands with their matching Swedish nails come down to play with the band, to move over own his body's curves, teasing the man watching him. That elicits a Swedish moan, and the only word Timo catches is "hustru," wife.
Despite the feminine words, the painted nails, the effeminacy, Timo's briefs bulge from the growing erection they cover.
Berwald is doing no better, and Timo doesn't know if he wants to laugh or groan when he realizes Berwald's boxers are the ones he jokingly bought him last Christmas, boxers with a proud Finnish flag. Sometimes, Timo thinks, they are quite ridiculous. But then he sees the look of need on his husband's face and remembers that no, they are two countries lucky enough to be in love and left to be in love. Timo never forgets what a rare relationship they possess.
His husband's lips steal his, the tongue swirling in Timo's mouth. Berwald rests on his knees between his wife's legs and instinctively Timo bucks his hips against the larger man. That mouth trails kisses down his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that he loves, before going over the pale chest. Berwald's large hands stroke up and down his sides, running over the round belly as his lips find one of his nipples.
"Be," Timo moans, running his hands through Berwald's hair, and too soon the mouth moves to the other nipple. "Be," he tries again, but nothing ever follows that one syllable he can manage. The lips trail down, fluttering over the soft skin of his abdomen, as hands work to free him of his last garment.
Timo's eyes are opened but his head is thrown back, gaze trained on the white ceiling. He can hear a rustling, knows Berwald's must have become impatient and removed his boxers as well in anticipation. There's the gentle clink of glasses being placed on a bedside table before two hands come to rest on the top of his thighs, the thumbs teasing so close to where he wants his husband to touch.
That wonderful and loving mouth trails kisses from one knee up until Timo can feel his erection grazing the side of Berwald's face, hands working his other thigh. Then he has the sensation of that strong nose running up his shaft, a lazy tongue following, teasing him even more. Timo's hands trail down to grab at that soft hair of Berwald's again, gripping it, and if he was braver in bed like his husband perhaps Timo would have looked down to meet the gaze he knows is set upon his face. Because Berwald loves to watch the response Timo gives when he finally takes his cock into his mouth, centimeter by centimeter. Because Berwald knows just what Timo likes and how to get the best groans and bucks from him. The Swede licks and kisses and sucks, twisting his lips as he comes up before going back down on his wife. It is slow, they have all the time in the world, and it drives Timo crazy.
Strong arms wrap under his legs as Timo feels himself being pulled closer to the edge of the bed, his own legs falling over Berwald's shoulders. The large hands move to hold still his hips which have begun to thrust up and to steady the smaller nation beneath him. The pressure is building inside Timo though, incredible and consuming and oh oh oh, his husband knows just what he's doing when he gives that final strong sucking that's too much. Berwald swallows greedily as Timo comes in his mouth, and the Finn will never be able to figure out why he enjoys doing that so much. As he comes down from his high Timo knows he surely never looks as pleased with himself as Berwald does now, those sea-green eyes smiling at him. It's like magic.
As his Swedish husband stands Timo scoots himself further back on the bed, getting comfortable. He loves Berwald, loves the way he treats him, lavishes him, but he really loves this the most, Saturday night when they go slow and move together and are so much in love without a care for what year it is outside or what country they're living in. With adoring eyes he watches his husband remove something from the bedside stand's drawer, the towering body coming back to hover over him. The loving fingers with painted nails come up to graze over the smooth muscles of Berwald as Timo widens his legs.
"Be." The name escapes into the night as Berwald, brows knit together in concentration, looks up with a face that's honest and open and all for Timo.
Then that loving Swede crooks a smile that makes his heart melt.
"Love you," Berwald murmurs, coming down to crush their lips together before one slicked finger is inserted, then two, slowly moving and preparing Timo's small body. He squirms against the hand, trying to get it to move faster. The other hand calms his hips, Berwald deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping through Timo's mouth over and over in open-mouth kisses that take away his breath. He doesn't even realize his lover has finished, ever inserted the third digit and already removed his fingers, until Berwald breaks the kiss, resting his head against the smaller man's.
"Love you so much," he repeats, and their eyes lock as Berwald settles between Timo's legs, placing them carefully around his hips to lock together behind him. Then the large hands hold steady the small hips as he pushes in and this is what Timo lives for, this, right here, the feeling of Berwald filling him little by little until he's sheathed all the way inside him. Their bodies are connected, one body for the two souls that cannot live without each other. Timo throws his head back because it doesn't matter how many times they've done this, how recently they've done it, it still takes his breath away each and every time. Berwald comes down on the exposed neck, biting and kissing, moving in and out of where they are joined. It's like fireworks behind Timo's eyelids.
The tension builds and builds and builds until Timo's fingers dig dangerously into Berwald's back, leaving little half-moons as he arches up to press more into the body. Berwald holds his wife's chest to his as Timo comes, screaming, and he's still panting when Berwald follows after several more thrusts, laying down on the tired Finn.
"Miss this," Berwald whispers as they settle under the sheets, Berwald on his side holding a tired Timo to his chest. He plants a kiss in the soft hair. "During the week."
Timo giggles as his husband's fingers stroke a particularly ticklish spot on his side. "I know Be," and he lifts his head just enough to steal a kiss. "I miss it too. I love you."
He's barely sat on the couch, closing his eyes as he digests the magnificently large breakfast Berwald had made him (he's always much more relaxed after Saturday night, going crazy cooking for his wife), when something hits Timo's lap with a loud, "Hey!"
Timo groans as his torso leans dangerously to one side, his entire body falling over, Peter coming with him. The Finn lays like that for a few more moments, eyes still closed, before the rambunctious boy starts in on him again.
"Hey! Are you asleep Mama? You shouldn't be asleep! It's morning Mama! Mama? Mama!" Hands snatch the boy's flailing arms without hesitation, grip tightening and Swedish nails holding onto the pale skin until the boy calms.
"Peter," Timo murmurs quietly, "we've gone over this."
"Sorry Mama," the boy whispers, dropping his voice to match his adopted mother's. He's a sweet kid really, just too much energy is all. Every Sunday morning they have this talk about how Timo is exhausted (Berwald normally snickering uncharacteristically when Peter asks why) and how Peter needs to respect others if he wants to be a proper nation (both of them snickering when he asks why doesn't Christen).
But as the boy lays down beside Timo, nudging his head under his mother's chin, Timo can do nothing more than sigh and hold the boy tightly to his chest. He's such a good boy, his body stilling against the Finnish nation who loves him so much. It's be nice if Peter was quieter but at the same time, he wouldn't change one thing about his son; he's perfect just the way he is.
The next thing Timo's aware of is a soft tone as Berwald leans over the couch asking, "Mama asleep?"
"Shh Papa!" Peter whispers back, sitting up slightly. "You'll wake Mama!"
"It's ok Peter," Timo manages, drowsy from the accidental nap. "I need to get up anyway." It's awkward trying to sit with Peter beside him on the couch that's not quite big enough for both of them. Without him having to say anything Berwald seems to sense this, lifting the twelve year old with ease over the back of the couch to stand beside his father, Peter giggling the whole time. "You're too strong Be," Timo laughs, leaning his head back over the couch to look up into his husband's face.
"Nonsense," and lips meet his in a gentle upside-down kiss.
"Eww!" Peter squeals, just like he does every time he sees his parents kiss. What ensues after that squeal is a chase about the house, the three nations trading off on who is the prey and who is the predator. First it's Berwald chasing Peter whose laugh always gives away his hiding place, though the size of his body does work to his advantage against the gargantuan Swede. Then when Timo suggests they both come back downstairs and calm down he finds himself being chased by both his boys, thunder sounding throughout the house as all of them run up and down the stairs. When Peter finally catches Timo, not realizing that his mother's let him, the Finn convinces the little boy to help him chase Berwald. They come at their shared protector together, each one hugging him on a different side, and are rewarded with being picked up in strong arms, spinning around the living room, Hana yipping at Swedish feet.
Timo is out of breath and Berwald's cheeks are flushed and Peter cannot stop laughing, the sound filling the house like church bells at a wedding or Timo and Berwald's song coming on the radio when they're apart. It is beautiful and inspiring and they all collapse on the couch, Timo under one of his husband's strong arms, legs over Berwald's, Peter under the other arm, legs over Timo's. Berwald's laughing shakes both their bodies as they all calm down, heads tucked under chins and bodies intertwined.
"Mama?" Peter asks quietly.
"We miss you when you're not here with us. A lot."
Timo buries his face in his husband's chest, trying to hide his grin from their son. His hair receives a kiss because Berwald can feel the smile, because they both know that Peter only says "we" so he doesn't have to say "I".
"Well," Timo sighs, turning to look at his son's bright, wide face. It is so open, so honest, so full of trust and life like Berwald has told him his own face used to be when he was that age. "When I'm not here I miss both of you too, terribly."
"Yay!" And then Timo falls once more back onto the couch, Peter's thin arms around his neck. He can see Berwald rubbing the boy's back, a look of sublime happiness on his husband's face. When the Swede catches him watching, his Finnish wife smiles up at him, holding their son close.
They never would have thought life would give them little moments like these.
They're piled in around the dinning room table, Peter in the living room playing with Hana. Emil keeps shooting looks over at the boy and his dog as if envious of the happy place he is in now instead of where Emil is sitting. Timo almost pities him, the Icelander at one end of the table. Across from him sits Berwald, who has a bad habit of staring without meaning to, something Emil has never gotten use to. Timo's giggles at the sight despite how hard he fights not to, one hand in Berwald's larger grasp. Across from Timo Lukas is being forced to sit on Christen's lap, something he looks not in the least bit thrilled about. Christen is happily informing the other Nords about something or other, though Timo knows no one is listening to a word he's saying.
"What's up with your nails?" the Dane asks suddenly, staring at Timo. Berwald answers for him.
"Leave him alone." It's almost a low growl, as if daring Christen to keep on discussing something the Swede clearly does not want to be a topic of conversation.
"Come on Waldy," he says jokingly, swatting at Berwald's arm, using the name the largest Nord hates the most. Timo can almost see the muscles in that arm straining to not rip Christen's joint out of its socket. Lukas's lazy gaze directed toward Timo seems to indicate the Norwegian can sense the same thing. "Every weekend he has his nails done."
A smarter man would have stopped sooner than that.
This being Christen, he keeps on going with his questioning. "Well isn't it sort of a chick thing to do your nails?"
Timo can see Berwald trying to stand, Lukas somehow keeping the Swedish nation in place with unseen magic. That's for the better, he thinks, stroking his thumb against his husband's palm to try and calm the riled-up former Viking.
"Emil?" The Icelander lifts his head in response to his brother's voice, which betrays none of the contempt Lukas is probably feeling right about now for his Danish lover. "Why don't you go sit with Peter while we decide if today shall be the day we allow Berwald to kill Christen?" The youngest Nord is only too happy to oblige, bounding out of his chair as fast as he can to get away from whatever madness is surely about to commence.
"I'm just sayin-" Christen starts before Lukas has a hand at his neck, choking him. If anything that act seems to calm Berwald, who stops straining against the magic holding him in place.
"There is nothing wrong with painted nails," Lukas mutters dangerously. "I used to wear dresses, dresses that you would buy me. Does that make me a woman Christen?"
Christen, neck still in his lover's gasp, lets his gaze fall on Timo before managing, "No, I was just curious."
Timo shrugs, smiling half-heartily. He knows the Dane never meant harm, just like how Berwald never means to intimidate or how Emil never means to look so put-off when they are all together. (Lukas, well, he means everything he does as far as the Finn can tell.) "I like painting my nails."
The Dane smiles at him stupidly, wrapping arms lovingly around the Norwegian who finally lets go of his neck. "But it's always the same Timo, always a Swedish flag. Why not a Danish flag?" He chuckles at his own comment.
"I will end you," Berwald states flatly, which has Timo roaring in laughter, Christen looking torn between fear and amusement, and even Lukas cracking a smile.
"What's going on?" Peter demands from the other room at the sudden change in mood amongst the eldest Nords.
"Nothing," his father calls back, grinning dangerously at his former ally. Christen swallows, holding Lukas to him tighter.
Berwald is careful to tuck in the sleeping little nation, kissing his fluffy hair followed by Hana's as the little pup snuggles in under one of Peter's arms. As he leaves the room Timo, leaning against the doorframe, stands on tiptoes to kiss his husband sweetly; no matter how many times he sees this night played out, the sight of that loving father he calls his husband tucking their son in still warms his heart. Berwald flicks off the lights behind him as they close the door.
The house is clean, everything put back where it belongs. Peter will stay until Wednesday night, Timo until Tuesday afternoon, like usual. The never-empty hallway holds the always-used luggage, their constant state of being packed and unpacked and repacked having long since become normal in the Oxenstierna household. They stealthily pass the baggage on the way to their own master room, closing the door as quietly as possible behind them.
With Peter in the house they don't like to have sex, but that doesn't mean they can keep their hands off each other once their son's been put to bed. Quite the opposite, within a minute they're on the bed, Timo already climbing onto his husband's lap, straddling him and kissing him and pulling off his shirt to play with the hard muscle beneath, Berwald's arms holding him close as he throws his head back, groaning quietly. With a smugness that comes from knowing just what kind of power he exerts over the largest of nations, the Finn pushes him back to lie flat on the bed, kissing up and down the lean torso that's so strong, that's protected him for centuries and will for centuries to come.
After the always-painful make-out session that can just never end in sex, Berwald somehow only in his straining boxers (Timo doesn't remember that happening- well, the clothing bit at least) is left on the bed while his wife makes his way to the bathroom. It's annoying to work off all the nail polish that he so carefully applied, that's only got one chip from chasing Peter, that's dark and takes a while to get from the edge of his nails. But Timo sighs, looking himself in the mirror and knowing it has to be done. He can't not, and so he pulls down a cotton ball with one hand, the other grabbing the nail polish remover from behind Berwald's shaving cream. He pauses only to roll up the sleeves of his husband's sweater, grabbed to cover his body in some vain attempt to hide his own erection. Once both sleeves are up, the material soft across his chest, Timo opens the bottle of remover.
"Hate this," he hears the man whisper from the adjoining room, and leaning back he can see that Berwald's now shifted to lay on Timo's side of the bed, his head positioned to look into the bathroom. "Wish the world didn't make you." He smiles weakly at that, knowing that the Swede means well. Every week he tells the Finn this, how he wishes the world wouldn't judge Timo for his effeminacy, how his wife is perfect just the way he is, how he's so proud of him and doesn't care who knows it.
It wasn't always this easy Timo remembers, working off the polish from his left hand. Timo used to be afraid of Berwald, and then they were separated when Timo lived with Ivan. When he came back Berwald still loved him, but it wasn't as easy going back to where they had been. It hadn't been until he'd left Sweden that Timo realized just how much he loved the man he now calls his husband, the man he'd do anything for. On nights like these when they can't have sex, they lay in bed holding each other and whispering their fears, most still stemming from that near-century spent apart. They talk of battles that left them scared and scarred, of all the things they had hoped would come to be that didn't. Or sometimes they don't say anything, because there are no words for the things they feel, the things they both understand. On the phone when separated they can pass an hour in silence just listening to each other's breathing in bed, and it makes Timo hate returning to his capital in a way he never thought he could. What takes Timo from Berwald must be wrong, no matter who or what it is, of that he is sure.
The other nations, his officials, they don't understand the relationship they have, don't get that Berwald isn't just completely enamored with Timo for no reason, that Timo isn't just some silly nation you can easily brush aside. They don't see that Berwald loves Timo for the person the rest of the world cannot see, loves him because he trusts him and can tell him all the things he's never told any other. And Timo, he's just too afraid to let the world see him as he really is. So many things he's wanted that he's denied himself, from keeping his painted nails to changing his name to Berwald's, all because he didn't want to face others who would look down on him, who would judge him.
Berwald has never judged him. That's what he loves most about his husband, and Timo knows that's what Berwald loves about him. They don't judge each other and yeah, Timo is the wife and the mother and the most feminine male nation, and yeah, Berwald isn't the fastest thinker or sharpest pencil, but that doesn't matter. Because in each other's eyes there is only perfection that no one else could ever see.
"Hey," his husband grunts in his ear, arms wrapping low around his waist as Berwald crouches down to rest his head level with Timo's. The Finn tries to wipe away the tears he hadn't realized he had started to shed with the back of his palm, not wanting to get remover in his eyes. One large hand stops him, those sweet lips kissing where each tear has fallen. "I love you," Berwald whispers.
"I love you so much Berwald," Timo moans, pushing back into that large chest, silently begging to be held tighter, closer, and his husband indulges him. "I wish we could stay like this forever."
"Like this, how we are on the weekend. Sweats and nail polish and big breakfasts and playing with Peter and visits from the others and time to ourselves to make love. Why can't it be like this forever?"
There's a pause where Berwald stands up just a little, and Timo doesn't envy the strain his back probably goes through when he bends down to the Finn's height. But he does come back down, to kiss at that Finnish neck and hold his lover closer.
"Because," he starts slowly, "if it was, wouldn't be as special." That makes Timo smile, kissing Berwald's hair before finishing on his right hand with the cotton ball. "Hey?"
For just a moment the Swede looks sheepish before asking, "Leave your toes? Peter and I are the only ones who see them and, uh- I really like them. But you- you knew that already."
In the mirror Timo catches that sea-green gaze, which is open and honest and so unlike the scary face Berwald has during the week. The scary face that his husband wears when they sit on opposite sides of a desk, officials arguing over something because the two lovers are not allowed to make their own decisions. The empty face that his husband wears at world meetings because the other Nords have to sit in between them and it hurts so much to know other lover-nations can sit beside each other but because Timo and Berwald are married, they cannot. The blank face that says his husband is dying inside without him and that the weekend, days like these, can never come soon enough, though Berwald has never said that last one out loud. Timo knows all of his husband's face, but this one in the mirror that is concerned and kind and gentle is all his. It's the face he likes best.
"Yeah Be, I think I can leave my toes."
No, Timo thinks as Berwald smiles wide, kissing his temple, that right there is the face he likes best. It's the face that is only for Timo, happy and amused and so in love, a face that's seen only on the weekends, only in quiet moments like these.
"Love you Timo."
The Finn smiles as wide as ever in response. "I've never doubted it Be. I love you too."