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December, 1939
London
The winter wind was unforgiving as it whipped across the Lambeth Bridge, only adding to Berwald’s desolation and loneliness as he looked out across the Thames at the muted glitter of London. The river, bleak and unblemished by moonlight, moved in swift tempo with the strong gale. The solitary man hunched into the upturned lapels of his coat, stuffing his hands firmly into pockets. It was, Berwald bitterly supposed, the cliched ending of a clandestine romance: the soon to be abandoned lover waiting alone at on an empty bridge. The appropriate touch of danger and mystery heightening the drama of the scene as the solitary and pitiable man anticipates and dreads the damning sound of his paramour’s footsteps, signaling the hour of the final kiss farewell.
And yet, he allowed, gazing towards the beckoning lights of Big Ben, there were some endings that called for darkness, silence, and the illusion of two ships passing in the night.
Berwald met Tino through the London diplomatic circle—Berwald serving as the political attaché from Sweden in charge of dealing with Churchill, Lord of the Admiralty, in regards to the British position on the iron-ore trade; while Tino worked for the Finnish embassy. From the first moment he saw Tino, at one of the endless gatherings thrown by some embassy, sipping champagne, laughing delicately and smiling at the envoy from the Netherlands, Berwald was enchanted. He was absolutely charmed by the way the he never seemed to stop talking or moving, circulating a room as if born to do so. Tino, with his unmistakably Scandinavian blond hair, guileless face and happy eyes, managed to exude innocence and innate attractiveness, eliciting a provocative mixture of lust and longing in Berwald.
It took several more social engagements before he was able convince himself to sidle his way up to Tino, startling the shorter man by asking his opinion on the future of Swedish-Finnish relations in face of all the uncertainty in Europe. He flushed both with embarrassment and pleasure at the sight of the amused tilt of Tino’s lips, the widening of his lovely eyes at being asked such a question at such an event, by a man as gruff and intimidating as Berwald.
Months later, staring out at the Thames, Berwald could no longer remember what Tino said in response, but he remembered with perfect clarity how the warm fall evening spun out over more glasses of champagne and reminiscences of endless summer nights at home, until night had long since set over London. He recalled standing on the balcony with Tino, watching the other guests stumbling out into to the street, listening to Tino’s poorly concealed laughter, wanting to put his hand over his on the railing. They’d walked together towards the Underground, closer perhaps than two men should have.
While he did not remember the weather that night, he remembered the little thrills he felt from the brush of their arms, the lilt of Tino’s non-stop chatter. How they stood too near in the almost empty train car, still flush with champagne.
But most of all, he remembered the moment when Tino turned to him, huddled close on the rattling train, running his fingers lightly against Berwald’s wrist, with a wicked smirk and an invitation in his eyes.
For several heartbeats, Berwald had been stunned into inaction---that he could be wanted by someone like this, it was beyond imagining. It was only when the wicked smirk began to waver into uncertainty that Berwald summoned the wherewithal to respond, moving as close as public propriety allowed, momentarily placing his hand against the pulse point in Tino’s neck, reveling in feeling it jump at the contact, cataloging the flush on his cheeks, and treasuring the softness of the smile he received in turn.
That night Tino took him to bed, pressing in so close and so deep as to make up for the all the distance they’d kept that night. Hidden from sight by the blackout curtains they kissed for long slow moments until the room echoed with needy and impatient sighs. He was as enthusiastic a lover as Berwald could have ever imagined—though the fantasies paled compared to the reality of the pleasurable ache and burn, the taste of salt and sweat on his tongue, listening to Tino’s panted breath as he moved sweetly and steadily between Berwald’s thighs. And after, when Tino curled up unapologetic against his side, contented murmurs rumbling in his throat, Berwald dazedly wondered if anything could ever compare again.
It was the beginning of the most exhilarating and breathless three months of Berwald’s life. Sitting in dingy, nondescript cafes, watching Tino smoke countless cigarettes as they consumed countless cups of tea during supposed business meetings; waiting for the moment when Tino would extinguish the cigarette and subtly reach across the ashtray to run his fingers inside of the cuff Berwald’s jacket, a secret invitation traced on his skin, always irresistible.
Spending long nights in the darkness of some unnamed hotel, wanton indulgence chasing after satiation, as he took the time to learn the hidden mysteries of Tino’s body, unlocking sighs and moans with his eager mouth and his large, always reaching hands. Smiles in the afterglow and stolen moments in the silence of the morning gave fuel to the warmth in Berwald's heart, burning low and steady like the intimacy of whispers between lovers in the dark. Berwald was deeply, irrevocably in love.
And, inevitably, living on borrowed time.
As he counted the chimes of Big Ben striking eleven p.m., (one long, lonely hour of waiting to go), he berated himself for not knowing, for having failed to understand Tino’s anxiety and agitation over the past weeks in the wake of the Soviet offensive in Finland, the onset of war in the country Tino loved so dearly. In their short and torrid time together, in between clandestine tumbles in the sheets and the non-stop ebb and flow of the London political scene, Berwald had gained ample opportunity to observe his new lover’s devotion to his country, his patriotism only endearing him further in Berwald's heart, building Tino's pedestal yet higher.
He’d been naive, preferring to cling to his desire rather than his rationality, imagining that Tino was worrying his lip and rending his nails over the indecision of how to proceed in his diplomatic role. Only thinking of the professional, unwilling to consider the personal, Berwald never allowed it to cross his mind that perhaps Tino was furiously trying to determine how to go back home, how to extract himself from this life of soirees and stupidly smitten Swedes who failed to read the truth in the frown lines of their love's face. He never gave credence to the thought that all the tension in Tino's shoulders, the bitter yearning in his eyes was born of his desperate need to return to Finland and aid the cause of his countrymen.
Such foolish, damning evidence of the depths of his need for this love affair.
It wasn't until the afternoon that Berwald walked into yet another random pub, still dressed from work, a dusting of snow on his shoulders, expecting to find warmth in a cup of tea and finding instead two glasses of whiskey waiting untouched at the table where Tino sat. The pub was filled with men in suits, overcoats slung across their laps, talking in weary voices about Hitler's latest move, the growing lack of allies on which lonely Britain could rely.
Berwald strode through the foreboding atmosphere, wanting to ignore the sense of unease bleeding through his chest at the unexpected change in routine---the whiskey and the fact that for the first time Tino had chosen to sit with his back facing away from the door, as though he wished to delay Berwald's arrival until the very last moment, when he had no choice but be to confronted by his presence.
Berwald approached hesitantly, letting his hand brush quickly and lightly over Tino's shoulders, one finger daring to graze the soft hairs on the back of his neck, just enough of a touch to warrant Tino's attention and draw no others. Tino remained stone still, not turning his head, nor moving his hands in greeting as Berwald grew increasingly agitated, though his face gave away nothing, no sign that this was anything other than a casual meeting between acquaintances in a bar on a cold afternoon.
He sat, keeping his eyes on the amber of the whiskey, watching the smoke curl up from Tino's abandoned cigarette in the ashtray, waiting for his heartbeat to calm before raising his gaze to meet Tino's.
And in that instant, against his will, Berwald knew everything he had been so sure wouldn't come to pass was indeed going to happen and it was happening now.
He felt his stomach bottom out, a roiling sense of panic clawing at his sides as he took in the absolute placidity of Tino's expression. All the nerves and worry of the past weeks were smoothed away, gone even was the happy fluttering of his hands and playful twitch of his lips that had so drawn Berwald to him, even when Tino was just a gorgeous piece in an ever moving society puzzle. Now, Tino's eyes spoke of calm determination, the set of his jaw was that of a man who has finally found peace within his heart, an utter stillness and resoluteness in the soul.
Feeling adrift and as far from placidity as he'd ever been, Berwald cast around for answers to what could have warranted this change...and there it was, staring at him in boldface font on a page of The Times; sparse inches of newsprint detailing the immense size of the Soviet force that was currently marching across Finland.
He pulled the paper across the table, feeling Tino's heavy, silent gaze on him as he read; looking at him until he had read enough that his throat was constricted and his hands were clenched in the newspaper tightly enough to resist the urge to reach for Tino's wrists and pin in him place.
He kept the shattering evidence in his grip, the entirety of his vision and senses collapsing on to this moment, focusing solely on Tino as he managed to ask the question to which he already achingly, intimately knew the answer.
He knew it so well that when the words finally came rumbling from his chest, flat and betraying nothing, it was a statement of fact, rather than any real need for affirmation of this new painful reality:
“You're leaving.”
Tino looked at him serenely, his fingers reaching out to toy with the still burning cigarette, smiling gently as he answered, “Yes. I've found a way to get home, to be where I'm needed, fighting for my country.”
Berwald said nothing, reaching for the whiskey and swallowing it down in one mouthful, relishing the burn that distracted him from the searing hurt that he wasn't able to show. He wanted to argue, to refuse, to beg, but how could he ask such things when he was swathed in the blanket of his country's neutrality, when he would not have to make such choice?. He couldn't even touch Tino, not here, not now, under the careless and harmful eyes of others. They were men and men endured, particularly in times of war...what was one man's sorrow compared to the countless worries of others?
And so he licked his lips and set the glass down, voice steady as he asked the inevitable next question, “When?”
Tino's eyes softened momentarily, gaze lingering on the shaking of Berwald's hand around the glass, apologetic and sweet with his devastating reply, “Tomorrow night.”
Another blow and Berwald reached across for Tino's untouched glass, only to have Tino stop his arm in its path, placing his hand over Berwald's wrist, thumb tracing over his frantic pulse, a clandestine gesture of comfort. Tino shook his head, the fringe of his hair falling across his eyes, hiding his expression from Berwald, who desperately wanted any indication of how this was supposed to go, what he was supposed to do next...how they were meant to say goodbye.
Tino sighed and released his wrist and Berwald had to keep himself from grabbing his hand again as Tino stood and the fear welled up that perhaps Tino meant to walk away right now, to sever the ties that bound them together in one ruthless, but perhaps merciful, swoop.
But then Tino pushed the glass of whiskey forward, sliding around the able to stand next to Berwald, leaning over him to collect his coat from the hook on the wall. As he bent down to reach for the scarf he had draped over the back of Berwald's chair, Tino whispered into his ear, a bittersweet invitation to yet another nameless hotel somewhere deep in the city, a caressing entreaty to have one last night.
Berwald felt his desire for Tino flood him even now, laced with sadness and precipitous longing, nodding his acquiescence even as Tino began to drift towards the doors, his shoulders once again set like those of a man who has started to walk his true path.
He watched his every step, uncaring what anyone else thought of his unrelenting stare, waiting until Tino had passed from his view, going out into the swirling cold to wait somewhere for Berwald to come to him, a supplicant for his love for the final time.
Bereft, he tried to ground his fleeing composure and his rushing tumult of feelings, watching the ice slowly melt, bleeding into the whiskey. When the last sliver had given up the fight, fading from one existence into another, Berwald closed his eyes and drained the glass, determined to finish anything that he and Tino had started.
~~
When enough time had passed that the desk clerk at the hotel should have changed from day to night, ensuring that his request for the second key to whatever room Tino had arranged for this latest, (last) hidden rendezvous would go unnoticed, Berwald found himself riding the creaking elevator up to the third floor, with his heart in his throat and a sickness in his stomach.
In all the days past he had hurried down countless hallways as worn and faded as this one, his rose tinted lover's eyes uncaring, only wanting to be finally behind a closed door with his beloved. But now as he walked across the frayed and torn carpet, patterns long since smudged unrecognizable by thousands of nameless feet, he felt a strange sense of bitter camaraderie with the dirty wallpaper and tarnished chandelier, knowing that they had both seen better days.
His footsteps were heavy and uneven, moving slowly until he was standing outside of Tino's door, trying to bury his apprehension and his sadness, staring for long moments at the last barrier separating him from their farewell tryst, one more unspeakable meeting in the night.
He fumbled the keys as he entered the room, hands slick with nervous sweat, insides twisting into even more elaborate knots as he took in the sight of Tino standing at the window, barefoot and already in his white undershirt, holding the edges of the thick curtains as if ready to close off the room entirely from the world.
In the dim, flickering light of the bedside lamp, Tino looked small and fragile, as wondrously beautiful as ever and Berwald wanted to protect him always, to hold him inside this room where he could make believe that they were not these men who had to make such choices.
Tino closed the curtains resolutely, turning and giving Berwald that same serene, placid smile as before and this time Berwald found his hands clenching in irritation as he sat down on the well-worn sofa, tugging his tie off with force, wondering if Tino felt even a fraction of his despair and confusion. He slid off his shoes and unbuttoned his collar, refusing to look at Tino as he settled onto the couch next to him, body betraying nothing but calm reassurance in contrast to Berwald's obvious agitation and upset.
They sat in silence for a long moment and Berwald could see Tino's gazing at him out of the corner of his eye as they said nothing. He felt Tino's hand on his arm, stroking him softly as though he were an abandoned animal in need of comfort, bristling as Tino whispered, “Oh, Berwald, you do understand, don't you?”
The dam of repression in Berwald's mind broke open as he turned to look at Tino's wide, guileless eyes, practically begging for Berwald to say nothing of his choice, to let him go without regret or guilt, or, so it seemed to Berwald in this moment of pure, desperate sadness, to let him go without the need to give him a second thought.
Filled with the fury of his own powerlessness and the overwhelming sensation of being utterly alone in his heartbreak, he grabbed Tino roughly, crushing him into the softness of the cushions, kissing him without any of his usual care or gentleness, biting into the delicateness of Tino's bottom lip. Shocked, Tino moaned and arched into him, scrambling for purchase as Berwald ripped his shirt over his head and tossed it with his own glasses onto the floor, letting everything go blurred and hazy. He sucked vicious red marks onto Tino's pale, untouched chest, wanting to know that some part of him would follow Tino, even after he left, that he could not leave so unscathed.
“Yes, yes,” he thought, relishing the feeling of Tino's nails scoring a hot trail down his neck and chest as his shirt came undone, as they kissed harsh and hard until they were breathless, “I understand. War demands sacrifice of us all. Give us your nylons for a parachute, your sugar and your sons for the good of the armies, give up old friends and old borders, give it all without complaint.”
He paused in his assault, burying his head in Tino's shoulder, feeling the trembling of his skin, smelling the scent of smoke and sweat and faded cologne, pressing his lips to the fluttering flow of blood beating in his neck.
“What is one, lonely, love affair to add to the pile of sacrifice and regret?”
He raised his head at the sound of Tino's broken breathy sighs, leaning down to look at his love's face, feeling all the anger flow out of him as he traced a gentle finger under Tino's eyes, brushing away his tears. And now that he had seen what he thought he wanted to see...the reflection of his heartbreak in Tino's eyes, Berwald wished it otherwise, suddenly desperate to assuage all his doubt and despair.
He stood from the couch, holding out a hand to Tino, guiding him towards the bed and carefully removing the rest of his clothes and then his own until they stood bare in the tepid light of the hotel room. He cradled Tino's face in his large hands, smiling when Tino closed his eyes and pressed a kiss into his palm. Slowly, he lowered them both to the bed, covering Tino with his body, stroking his fingers over Tino's mouth and cheeks and eyelashes, memorizing the way he looked, flushed pink with kiss bitten lips and eyes still wet with tears.
Softly, he touched his own lips to Tino's ear, holding him as gently as possible as he whispered, “Yes, I understand.”
That night as they moved together in the still darkness, as he held Tino's arms above his head, trying to kiss away all their fears, Berwald wrote “I love you” onto the tender skin of Tino's wrist. He felt Tino's echoing, “I love you, too,” in the patterns Tino traced on the broad planes of his back as he arched into his body. He committed to memory for always the passionate and sorrowful silent promises they marked on each other, spelled out in pants and sighs, sealed with their clinging embrace as they collapsed desperately entangled into exhausted sleep.
When he awoke the next morning, Berwald was alone. He rubbed his eyes and slid on his glasses, heart beating dully as he looked for the one thing he knew he wouldn't find in a hotel room that only looked even more gray and tragic in the light of morning. Feeling void of anything but bottomless unhappiness, he wondered if Tino had meant his escape as some form of kindness until he saw the scrap of paper on the bedside table, next to his forgotten cigarette case.
He sighed and felt a slow ache start to throb in the emptiness of his mind as he read Tino's scrawled missive:
Lambeth Bridge, 10pm.
I'm sorry.
Already exhausted, Berwald closed his eyes and tried to find Tino's scent in the sheets, torturing himself with indecision of whether or not to go to the bridge. There was nothing they could say or do in public, even under the cover of night, and maybe it would be better to carry the memory of sound of Tino's sighs and the feel of his legs quivering around him as his last.
He laid in bed in utter stillness, breathing all that remained of their desire, turning the question over and over in is mind, trying to stave off the sadness that threatened to consume him, until the maid came to usher him out of the room and into the unforgiving cold morning.
As he leaned against the rough brick wall of the hotel, dressed in yesterday's clothes, shivering as London's damp winter curled around him, he rubbed his fingers over the case in his pocket, absently reading the latest dire headlines screaming at him from the newsstand across the sidewalk.
“So much chaos and disaster,” Berwald thought, weary already of the day's disappointments, knowing in the darkest corners of his mind that there would be a long and deadly struggle, encompassing the whole of the world before this time of war and suffering would come to an end one way or another.
Before it would be over.
Shocked into standing up straight, his hands tightening in his pocket, the sharp edges of the metal cutting into his skin, waking him from his daze, the realization hit him:
There was one promise he had yet to make.
So Berwald went to Lambeth Bridge, hours earlier than necessary, watching the colors of the Thames change and fade to ink as the daylight drifted away into a cold, desolate winter night. He stood, peering over the ledge, relishing the stiffness in his joints, the distraction of his body's pain giving him the strength he needed to keep his courage and wait for Tino to arrive.
And when Tino did arrive, appearing almost silently at his side, footsteps hidden by the rushing of the wind and murmuring of the river below, Berwald swallowed his desire to beg Tino to stay, saying nothing as they stood together, inches away from touching, gazing out at the water.
He could see Tino's breath curl into the air, could feel the warmth of his body, so close yet so far. Berwald reached into his pocket, drawing out the battered silver case, offering Tino one of his own abandoned cigarettes. Tino pulled off his glove, taking one appreciatively, placing it between his lips and leaning into the cup of Berwald's hands to take try and get a light. As he inhaled, he did not move away, staying within the circle of Berwald's arms, still not quite touching as they breathed together.
Berwald covered Tino's bare hand with his own, holding them both against the cold of Lambeth's stone ledge as he saw the flashing light of a small boat below, signaling that these were indeed the very last moments they were ever sure to be together, a soundless tolling of the bells.
Berwald shifted nearer, closing the inches that separated them as he ran his thumb over Tino's knuckles, meeting his eyes and speaking more seriously than he ever had as he murmured solemnly, “I'll wait for you.”
Tino exhaled sharply, eyes going momentarily wide, before they softened and he shook his head, voice breaking as he answered, “You shouldn't make promises like that in times like these.”
“I know,” Berwald said softly but firmly, “but I am. And I will wait.”
Tino looked at him for a long moment, setting his cigarette down on the ledge, before letting his eyes flutter closed and fleetingly pressing his lips, warm and dry, to Berwald's, the hand under Berwald's trembling as they embraced.
He pulled back as the light from the boat flashed over them once more, dragging one hand down Berwald's face, trailing through the tracks of his tears before he dropped his hand and turned away.
Berwald returned his gaze to the water, not trusting his resolve to let Tino leave if his eyes were on him for a second more, trying to block out the sound of his retreating steps, taking the abandoned cigarette between his fingers, watching the embers burn.
He closed his eyes and placed it between his lips, feeling where Tino had pressed his own lips to the wet paper, listening as the wind whipped around him, taking the acrid smoke into his lungs. He waited until there was no more sound but the hushed whisper of the water, no more lights flashing to steal his love away, until the long column of ash from the cigarette fell tumbling onto his fingers before opening his eyes again to face his new future.
Berwald tossed the cigarette into the river, watching it sink and fade away, before turning and walking away into the night.