Chapter Text
December 17th, 1914
Berwald Oxenstierna can't sleep. This is usually not a problem for him, as he's normally so tired or fulfilled from the day he had that he could fall asleep anywhere. And that does mean anywhere, Lukas caught him sleeping in a rafter once when he didn't have a bed to sleep in. He shouted at him to wake him up and the Swede nearly got a concussion after falling.
So his lingering insomnia is new. New-ish, he's experienced much more of the late hours since the Russians took Finland. But now it's different. Now Tino's in a war zone, actively on the field of battle whether for or against his will. And Berwald can't do a thing to help.
He can't even get news out of Finland anymore, not since Russia has gotten so tight on front line news to try and keep morale up. Berwald has heard whispers of a massive battle that resulted badly, but rumors are rumors and he can't be sure if they're true.
Which only serves in making his anxiety worse. It's part of the reason he just can't sleep. He's so worried for Tino, scared for him to be hurt or captured or tortured or killed, even though he knows the last one is irrational. Nations don't go down easily, and if they do they come back a few minutes later. Berwald isn't afraid of the Fin dying, not fully, he's afraid of the pain he will suffer. He doesn't want Tino hurt where he can't comfort him.
And vice versa. A selfish part of Berwald craves Tino not because he wants to soothe his imagined pain, but because he wants Tino to soothe his own. That part wants to lay in bed, arms and legs intertwined with heat that's too fierce to just be their bodies, and cry into his shoulder. Tell him how much he was missed, tell him all the times Berwald came home drunk after drowning himself in so much alcohol that the pain was dulled, even if it was for a moment.
The rational part of Berwald, the one that's rapidly fading under the onslaught of nervous thoughts, tells him Tino can handle himself. He's seen the man wrestle, he'll certainly be fine. He can hold his own against anyone, Gilbert and his armies included.
He repeats these words over and over, that he'll be fine, but he just can't be sure. Until he sees him, until he lets his fingers roam the Fin's pale flesh in search of injury and find none, he won't truly be able to calm himself down. Normally it's just a press of fear at the back of his mind, but now, during the long hours of night where time seems to crawl, the press builds like a wave until it drowns him in fear, not alcohol.
Berwald's beginning to hate the night.
He battles back and forth with himself, presenting statements and rebuttals all based on tiny shreds of any kind of news. Or on what could only be described as a desperate hope concocted by need. Berwald needs Tino to be okay, but with what little information he has, it's so much harder to keep himself from running down a rabbit hole that shows any trace of his love.
The mental debate he's been having for the past hour or so comes to a head when Berwald decides it's not going to help anymore. He kicks his covers off almost furiously and stands, taking a shirt from the dresser beside his bed he always stubs his toe on and starts heading for the door. He wrestles with both the white fabric and the brass doorknob that's been finicky for awhile before finally the door, at least, complies.
He pads downstairs, praying desperately he doesn't wake the maid or fall down the steps. He can't decide which would be worse, pain or social interaction. Historically, it's always been social interaction for him, but now that Finland's gone and he's more touch starved than ever, he isn't so sure.
Berwald isn't even sure what he's doing. He just had to get out of that room, do something to get away from the thoughts that so often decide to punish him now. Thoughts about Finland, the war, his family. Tortuous thoughts.
But it's hard to run from your own mind. Berwald knows this even as he slips his boots on, preparing himself for the bite of chilly air in the numbing Swedish winter. He omits a coat, he'd rather feel the cold to distract him from the pain his mind brings him. He's being stupid, he knows it, but unlike everything else, he can't bend or carve his feelings to fit his mold. They run rampant, turning his life into a living hell and making even the easiest things hurt.
He's been like this before, but never has it been this bad. The other Nordics don't know what to call it, and most doctors won't even recognize it's there. And even if they did, it's not like there's medicine for the mind. They'd probably prescribe him something stupid like a trip to Europe, even though it's the middle of a war and Berwald's been there too many times to keep track.
Usually Tino's mere presence would help, but it's the lack of it that Berwald is feeling now.
He throws the door open, enjoying for a second the wind that stings his fingers and nose. His flicker of happiness only lasts a moment before a different wind snuffs it out. His boots clomp unwieldly on the wide stone stairs, but Berwald doesn't care. He doesn't care about a lot these days.
The nearly silent crunch of the frosted grass settles into rhythm alongside his footsteps. It's almost like a background track. He doesn't let his mind wander, instead focusing on the numbness crawling up his fingers, the darkness of the trees that litter the property and forest beyond, the faint sound of owls hooting and elk calling even though it's pitch black. The mailbox that highlights the fence outside.
It works, for longer than Berwald expected. Simply counting his steps or exploring the ways everything looks in the night staves off the hurricane in his head. That's what this feels like to him, whatever this feeling should be called. Wind ripping at him, tearing away pieces that he holds so dear and tossing them into the sea, so far out he might never get them back. Alfred's described hurricanes to him before, especially the Galveston one that left him coughing up mud for months, and the comparison is shockingly similar. Except, instead of sending tree branches through houses, Berwald's wind sends his house into the branches.
Berwald's wind rips his safety away, leaving a scared man behind. Someone who sulks and can't take care of himself, someone who he's ashamed of.
Is that really it? Is he ashamed of himself for missing Tino this much? Is this normal, or is he taking something he should be able to deal with way too far?
He kicks at the grass, watching the way the blades flutter as the drift to the ground so he doesn't think on that further. His fingers are numb now, tingly whenever he clenches them too tight. His feet fall almost methodically as he winds his way back around the house to the front side, still laser-focused on anything that isn't his head. His limbs shake a little, shivering without his authority. He forces himself to still and glances back over towards the fence.
Turquoise eyes land on something he didn't notice before, though Berwald is extremely observant. The fact that he didn't see something as simple as the flag being up makes him doubt he is still "extremely observant." He hesitates a moment, kicking himself more than he's already done as he walks to the mailbox.
He expects just junk mail, and that's exactly what it is. A French newspaper that exclusively covers the war, some ad for a new restaurant in town, and a few letters from people he doesn't know. Probably politicians lobbying for some policy he can't do the research on right now. He turns back to the warm glow of his home, sifting through the letters with numb fingers from the chill he's been out in.
He drops every paper when he gets to the first step. There's a letter he didn't notice, thicker than the rest, written in a hand Berwald very much recognizes.
Tino Vainamoinen.
He's been waiting for this letter since the war started. A full explanation of what's been happening, reassurance written in pen instead of in mental scrawl. The rest of the mail sits forgotten on the stoop for the poor maid to pick up tomorrow as Berwald races inside, kicking his boots off without his usual grace. He rushes upstairs, not caring if he wakes said poor maid anymore. He doesn't care.
The paper gives easily, and Berwald tears into it like a lion to their kill. His hands almost shake as he gingerly pulls the pages out of their carrier, now lying forgotten like the other envelopes on his desk. Berwald lights a candle, as while romantic as reading his lover's letter by moonlight would be, tonight is cloudy and his drapes are pulled tight around the window frames in a futile attempt to help him sleep.
The flickering light echoes Berwald's flickering hope as the first words on the page are illuminated by the light. His heart soars in his chest, still beating at a faster pace from both his sprint up the stairs and the fact that this letter is from Tino. The man he's been waiting for.
This is the first time he's really felt happy in awhile. Not a fleeting joy like the cold or fishing brings him, a pure, long-lasting elation that can truly sustain him. The kind of joy he only gets when mixed with love. And while maybe he should lament the fact that he hasn't been happy until now, Tino certainly would, but he doesn't. He just relishes the feeling of that joy pulsing through him, fueled by the rough parchment and the words scribbled on it in sometimes incorrect Swedish. His lips curl up for the first time in even longer, but he doesn't analyze that too hard either.
What he does analyze is the letter. Every word looks like it was crafted meticulously, handpicked for him. Some parts of it switch to Finnish when Tino couldn't express something properly in Berwald's mother tongue. The impatient taps of ink on the paper around the few Finish words makes Berwald smile even more.
Dear Berwald,
You know I'm not good at writing. That's why I asked you to draft things for me all the time, remember? You were so organized with it, and the way you looked when you were doing it, like it was the most important thing in the world...
I'm getting sidetracked. Ivan's finally letting me write a letter. Why now of all times, I don't know. But he's mentioned I could, and I thought I ought to make do on his promise. So here you are. Letter by yours truly.
There's too much I have to tell you to say by letter. This would be two hundred pages long if I tried. So why not a meeting? There's a map in here that has the town circled, it's not too far from Stavka so I should be able to slip away for a night. Meet me on September 10th, if you can.
Berwald ruffles back through the envelope to find that yes, there is a map in here. And it does have a town circled, a place too small to bother putting it's name on the map.
Berry, you don't know how much I want to see you again. It's been getting worse since the war, I hope it hasn't been the same for you too. But I know you too well, and I'm sorry I'm not there to help. I don't want to think of you all alone in our house, a place meant for two. I hope you've found something that helps, something that takes your mind off me.
Berwald scoffs. Tino couldn't be further from the truth.
As for me, I'm doing okay here. Ivan's scary, like always, but he hasn't done anything too bad to me yet. I miss you, but the war isn't terrible and at least I can get a decent night's sleep. I'll be fine.
I love you. Remember that.
Tino
Berwald can't help but cringe at those last lines. It almost sounded like he was hiding something, like it really was bad and he just couldn't say all of it in such a small paper. And that line about Ivan? How he hasn't done anything too bad, yet? Does that mean he's done something to him, and that Tino expects it to get worse? And he will be fine? Is he not fine right now? Is he acting just like Berwald right now, unable to get out of bed sometimes because the world just feels so scary without him? Does he too wish on every shooting star that they can be together again, even though he's beginning to believe it's a false hope?
Or does it mean something different? Does it mean he's hurt? Was he shot, found bleeding by some careless cavalry officer who probably jostled him too hard? Did a shell hit him and maim his legs? Was he shattered into a million pieces and forced to find his way back together again?
This letter should've calmed Berwald's anxious mind. Instead, it made him worse. Now he can't stop analyzing everything, replaying each line in his head with such conviction that he convinces himself it means something terrible. Even "I love you" turns twisted somehow, some kind of final declaration before Tino leaves this earth.
Tears start to lace Berwald's eyes as he reads the letter over and over again. Just the same as being happy, he hasn't cried in a long time either. He's just been in pain. But now the storm surge is too high for him to tamp down, breaking his levies and turning him into a broken mess.
Because his worst fears have come true. Tino's hurt. Whether it be physical or emotional doesn't matter, he's hurt. And Berwald can't be at his side to help him through it all, he has to watch. Read about his predicament in a letter that doesn't give enough and yet too much at the same time. And Berwald is helpless. He hates being helpless.
He slams his fist on the table, the resounding bang definitely waking up the maid if she wasn't up already. The pine stings, but it doesn't wound enough to stop his gross tears. If anything they come harder, sticking behind his teeth and smudging the ink on the paper. The salt comes silent from his eyes, thank God, but how it burns. Burns his cheeks, burns his eyes, burns his throat, burns his heart and it goes and burns somewhere deeper he doesn't dare to find.
But this is probably nothing compared to what Tino must be going through, at the spearhead of what's emerging as the worst war in human history.
The thought burns him even more.