#old ppl stuff play ball n whatever that game where you throw a ball on gravel thats what they do

[digital999placebo]

so since summer is coming i felt inspired to write a short densu summer fic (below cut if u r interested <3<3). thanks to @wickedfairfolk 4 feedback n proofreading. 

lyrics in the drawing is from Mother’s of Inventions cover of “Any Way the Wind Blows.”

— Stockholm,1973

The evening is chilly but not unpleasantly cold, yet the flat cliffs are still hot beneath their bare bodies; another summer afternoon spent skinny dipping by Berwald’s summer house. Berwald adjusts his snus with his thumb, and Mathias stubs out a hand-rolled cigarette in a, now mostly empty, bag of cherries.

“I’m hungry,” he complains and sits up.

Berwald hums, a slight acknowledgement of his hunger, and lifts his hand to brush away a cherry pit stuck between Mathias's sunburned shoulder blades. The sun hangs low on the sky, nearly dipping into the water on the archipelago's horizon, and its redness glows in contrast to the darkness of the woods on the islands, it stains the sky, water and sparse clouds orange and pink. Nearby, someone is grilling, and Berwald can smell the burning coals.

“Ten minutes,” he says, and Mathias looks back at him.

“Five.”

He nods, yielding to Mathias's request.

Mathias scoots a bit closer before he resumes his lying position. He rests his head near the crook of Berwald’s neck, and Berwald curls his arm around his shoulders to comb his thumb through the hair on his chest. Mathias begins to roll another cigarette.

They bike home in their underwear because the sun is too far away and the temperature too mild to evaporate the water on their skin; their clothes are left messily folded and secured at the back of their bikes. Despite Mathias's hunger, he still wants to take the long route home and justifies it by explaining how it’s more scenic to bike along the edge of the island, on the path between the trees and the cliffs that dive into the water, than it is to just bike through the sparse woods. Mathias bikes with his arms at his side, steering the bike by leaning his body in the direction he wishes to go, and Berwald half hopes that he’ll crash if only to learn a lesson. The beaten dirt path is dry beneath their wheels, dust rises from the ground as they paddle, and it catches on their bare feet. The lights are on in the houses on the island opposite them.

“Do you love me?” Mathias asks, purely for greedy reasons, when they’re halfway home.

Berwald looks over his shoulder to catch his eyes. The distant sun bounces off the water’s surface and catches on the side of Mathias's tan face, his wet hair glows gold in the light, and before Berwald ponders the man’s question, he thinks to himself that if he’d ever have to remember Mathias by a moment, he’d like to remember him like this, warm and happy and glorious in the late June’s setting sun.

Berwald looks back at the path ahead, squints his eyes as though he’s thinking and deliberately hesitates before he answers. A tidbit of insecurity wouldn’t harm– it’d be beneficial, even, Berwald thinks, to humble Mathias a bit.

“I don’t believe in your question,” Berwald finally responds, and with the strained expression Mathias gives him, he continues by explaining: “I don’t believe you can ask a question like that. The phrase ‘I love you’ lacks any truth value, it’s merely emotive. Think of the nihilistic take on moralistic statements. As a performative utterance, maybe, but as an assertion, no. You can’t apply propositional logic to it, such as there’s a deduction in PS of A from G. As I said, you can express it to release some inner pressure by exclaiming ‘I love you' when you don’t know what to do with yourself, but to ask for it? Then it's meaningless.”

By the time Berwald finishes, Mathias has put his elbows on the handlebar, and all he does is snort in response, half in genuine amusement and half in agony.

“If you’re going to be talking like this, I will burn all of your Hägerström."

Berwald feels his mouth twitch upward in giddiness at the fact that he has managed to irritate Mathias, not that it's some grand feat, but it's a feat nonetheless, no matter how easy it is to rile him up.

“I’ll burn your Kirkegaard,” Berwald counters.

“Please do. I can’t stand his moaning.”

—

“Do you love me?” Mathias asks again after dinner, and this time it’s only partly for greedy reasons; he’s mostly just trying to win now.

They both agreed to leave the responsibility of the dishes to their future selves, and so the sink remains full of pots, glasses, ceramic plates, and cutlery.

It’s dark outside, and Berwald can see his reflection in the window. He’s sitting in an old armchair, a red thing that he bought in Amsterdam some twenty years ago, and reads whatever book Lukas has brought and then forgotten during his last visit, something dystopian about cats, bunkers, and intercourse machines. Mathias sits in front of an oak desk on the opposite side of the room. He answers letters from his bosses, Willem (who no doubt wonders when the next poker evening will take place and who’s turn it is to host), and a hysterical Rudy (the nickname Mathias, Berwald, and Lukas has settled on for Ludwig).

Berwald stops reading but doesn’t lift his eyes from the pages of his book, “‘Already answered that.”

Mathias sulks, “No, you didn’t. You talked some shit about truth and value and how love isn’t real. That's all."

Berwald looks up. Mathias is hunched over the desk as though he’s the plagued main character in a medieval tragedy, pen held loosely between his fingers, dripping ink black as the night outside on blank sheets of paper and his head resting dejectedly atop the back of his hand. The sigh that he lets out is so dramatic it nearly convinces Berwald that he really is the plagued main character in a medieval tragedy. A moment or two passes in silence, with Berwald, again, feeling his lips twitch upward at the display.

Mathias sighs once more before returning to his letters with a heavy hand, and Berwald resumes reading about a dystopian future with cats, bunkers, and intercourse machines.

—

“You know what I meant,” Mathias says once they’ve settled into bed.

Berwald squints in the dim lights and tries to make out Mathias’ face in the darkness. They're sleeping in two different beds, pushed into opposite sides of the room because Swedish summers are sticky and smothering, it’s deadly to share a bed with someone under conditions like these. Berwald would like to see the statistics for couples that share a bed in the summer and the divorce rate in the country. Yet the distance between the beds is not so great that they can’t hold each other’s hands comfortably. Berwald’s knuckles brush against the wooden floor, and the coldness that seeps along it stands in contrast to the heat of Mathias's calloused fingers.

“I know that you did,” Mathias continues, “you’re teasing me, and I don't think it’s funny anymore.”

Mathias lays on his stomach and Berwald on his side, both with their heads turned to face the other. Mathias has the bed under the window, and despite the dark and the fact that his glasses are on the nightstand Berwald can still see Mathias' silhouette beneath the empty duvet cover, accentuated by the moonlight. He drops Mathias's hand, and Mathias falters for a second until he sees Berwald kicking off his own empty duvet cover. Three steps, and then Berwald is sitting on the edge of Matias's bed, his hair nearly blondish white in the pale light and contrast to the tan on his face.

“Don’t come here when you’re sweaty,” Mathias complains, nonetheless slipping his arms around Berwald’s shoulders and allowing the swede to settle into his bed. It’s almost too small to fit the two of them comfortably; they both have to lay on their side, chests pressed flush against each other, and Mathias sneaks a foot between Berwald’s knees, and proceeds to wrap every limb he has around him, not unlike a rattlesnake.

“You irritate me to the point of rashes,” Mathias tells him and buries his face in the crook of Berwald’s neck.

“Sorry, I did understand,” Berwald begins and when Mathias remains quiet he goes on, “But you should know by now that I love you… You do know that I’m in love with you?”

“I know, but it’s nice to hear it occasionally. It’s not like Lukas will ever say it no matter how much I cry, so I’m really counting on you here.”

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

Mathias pulls back and presses a quick kiss to Berwald’s upper lip.

“What did you say the nihilists called that? Relief for an inner urge?” Mathias asks cheekily, and Berwald reckons he deserves it.

If Berwald had to explain to his younger self that he and Mathias would in the future not fall into explosive altercations over every little misunderstanding or wounded ego, his younger self would’ve no doubt shot him in his knee for slander; he’d always been quieter than Mathias, but possessed the same streak for savagery and self-importance. That mindset is so far away from him now, the one of aggression and pride, when everything had been about conquering, conquering, conquering, he thinks as he brushes away strands of hair that stick to Mathias's face with sweat and kisses him.

“A release for an inner pressure,” Berwald corrects him kindly.

“You can release my inner pressure.”

Berwald smiles at that, softly, and Mathias leans forward to pepper him with kisses, saying (exclaiming), “I love you” between each press.

Berwald's Hägerström books remain intact and unburned for another day.