Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya
The Time Traveller's Wife belongs to Audrey Niffenegger.
I own nothing.
The house is still. The house is always still when he's gone. Even Hana makes no sound. I wait and wait and wait and wait for him. Berwald, my love. It's painful. Watching him disappear without warning, and the pained expression on his face.
I wait in time for him. Occupy myself until his return.
When he leaves, I sleep in the cold and I wake up in the cold. I paint pictures of our wedding. I take photographs. I listen to our song. I wear his clothes. Everything is cold and empty and dull. It's like that when the light of your life is gone. At times, thoughts wander into my head. I think, why us?
I remember the days where everything was simple. The days before Berwald. It was all just painting and happy days. But he changed me. He taught me how to live. He showed me the beauty in everything. And he showed me the pain of being left alone. When I wait for him, time slows down. Everything I do seems out of time. Even a second without him feels like a lifetime.
How would it feel to time travel? How?
At times, it feels like your mind gets side-tracked and your body has done things without your mind noticing. One second you're sitting on the couch, holding your favourite book, wearing the sweater that your wife knitted for you on Christmas. The next second, the sweater is gone, your body is bared for the world to see, the couch is gone, your wife's voice is gone, and so has everything else. You see nothing because your glasses have dematerialised. You are instead standing in some unknown alleyway, in the long hours of the night. And you close your eyes, thinking that it would be back to normal when you open them. But that's never the case. Everything will be the same. You always wish that you'd go back to the time that you belong to. You sneak around to find somewhere to go. You sometimes stumble upon people, who will think that you're insane. Sometimes you explain, sometimes you steal. But explaining is painful and the only people who will believe you are the ones considered to be crazy. Stealing is easier. Stealing provides you with necessities. It sometimes lands you in jail, but it's not likely that you're going to stay there forever.
At times, it feels as if blood is rushing to your head. Even as you lay still in bed. You feel as if you're falling. You can no longer feel your limbs. You flail around, trying to hold on to whatever that will keep you from leaving, and suddenly you're slewing across the frosted driveway of a residence in Norrköping, Östergötland
at 9:45 p.m., Tuesday, November 16th, 1993, and your body pummels into someone's car, triggering the car alarm and causing the owner, Herr Kirster Johansson from Gothenburg, to run out of his house, baseball bat in hand and calling the cops because there's a man that looks dead in front of his car. Hours later, you wake up in Vrinnevisjukhuset, a hospital, with a half-asleep policeman waiting at your door. You are dragged back by the hands of sleep, and you awake in your own bed, back in Stockholm, with your wife still asleep, suspecting nothing.
At times, it is exhilarating. You feel everything around you and your stomach churns, and you have travelled. You throw up inside a potted plant, or your parents' Välkommen mat, or on your mum's dress shoes, or on your kitchen a week ago, or in a park in Uppsala, around 1910, or a pond on a snowy day in the 1960s, or on your bare feet at anytime, anywhere.
How does it feel?
It feels as if you are sleeping, dreaming of yourself making a presentation, to only realise that you've no article of clothing covering any part of your body and your glasses are gone. And you have no access to money, ID cards, and anything else.
When I am out of sync, I am upend. I change to what I will never be in my present. I become a burglar, a vagabond, an outcast who flees and lies low. I scare people and give myself the image of being drunk or crazy. I am a joke, a chimera, it's almost hard to believe that I exist.
Is there a reason that this happens? Is there some sort of logic that this follows? Is there a cure for this anomaly? Can you stay in the present and embrace the moment? Nobody knows. There are indications; just like any disease, there are arrangements, likelihoods. Things that trigger epilepsy, and added stress can cause me to travel. But I can be cooking dinner with Tino, and Hana would be running around the house, chasing nothing, and I could suddenly disappear, and I go back to 1988, watching my six-year-old self learning to whittle with my grandpa and dad.
Some occurrences last only for a few moments; it's like listening to static. I sometimes find myself in large crowds, or public places that are packed. Just as much as I find myself alone in a grassland, or a beach, or my old school in the middle of the night. I'm scared of travelling to a jail, or to an casino, or on a road in the middle of the day. When I appear I'm always in my birthday suit, with nothing on me. How do I explain? I see nothing, thanks to my inability to bring anything with me as I travel, thus my glasses get left behind.
It's strange. All the things I cherish are simple ones: woodworking tools, a lazy day spent with Tino. All I wish for are simple delights. My old copy of Män som hatar kvinnor, the scent of Tino's skin after he's taken a shower, letters from my dad in the mail, coffee in the morning, Tino's smooth tummy, his very many heavy metal CDs lined up on the shelves. I love strolling through Tino's showroom, tracing my fingers lightly against the photos of him, paintings of us. These are the things that make me wish that I was born normal, not a time traveller.
And Tino, always Tino. Tino when he wakes up, grumpy and confused. Tino with his paint streaked fingers and face, the brush in his hand like an extension, blending the colours splotched on the canvas. Tino listening to music, his earbuds in and his head rests on my lap, while his feet moves to the tempo of the song. I've memorised Tino's voice, the feeling of his body pressed up against mine.
I hate to leave him alone. I hate to leave him alone in the present. But I always go, even when I don't want to, and I leave him alone.
((A/N: I wasn't sure if someone had posted something like this, but I really love SuFin and The Time Traveller's Wife. I really hope you enjoyed reading this, because frankly, I enjoyed writing it! This is going to go similarly to the novel, but I may change some aspects of it. I'm not making Berwald a librarian. Berwald will be a carpenter hehehehehe. Reviews are much appreciated!))