#eurodead fanfic

[diediegamchicothdie]

AND SORROW, AGAIN

[EURODEAD]

No beta, my first fanfic in English adapted by my dream fever, adult wise and 6th semester on foreign languages career help me to traduce,,, I hope you like it

His head was spinning, slightly, like a narcotic-like effect, like a hit of weed, a trip that ended in nightmare, few things were bringing him to that state in sobriety, he had been thinking, thinking too much about the Swede, his prominent nose, dead eyes and yellowish teeth, not thinking how he used to do it, bragging about his "dead," the most brutal man you could find, no, this time not, because the night of '89 was long, the entity of chaos was dropping, unfurled by the curtains of fear would be before the intense eyes of Øystein who could not stop watching Per, wishing his skin, from the blond platinum hair to his bones, his blood, hands with nails bitten, fingers cut off, skin raised, their flesh, the aroma of rotting snus, the fleshy flesh of dead animals that hung proudly on the ceiling as the rigid body covered with thick hair that was hidden inside the pillow case that unfolded the sweet whispers to his brain, how he envied not being able to get in between his dreams and bite his brain. He thought of his walks through the forest, his bare feet filled with dirt, his flabby chest that went up and down every time he looked at him, drowning in the cold oxygen of the trees surrounding that barn, thought of Per, his eyes excited when he promised glory, His thin lips that smiled at him with closed eyes, as if he were holding on to his last hope. He thought of Per, Pelle, Yngve, Ohlin as his own, and that in itself was a sin.

Øystein had never cared to look like a fag, that made him more challenging under his gaze, maybe people of all kinds were shocked at seeing basic decency, and of course, scaring old people into being a Satan worshiper is a pretty simple thing, to confuse your fellow worshippers by treating a girl as a human being or not hating those of another race because if it is an entirely different thing, maybe it was too Satanist for the purists, very well holy for satanists, but the real problem came when the fiddling between the attitude of a faggot and the palpable reality of being a faggot became a blurred line, because by the lips of his friend he would not mind to erase it completely, nor is it as if he was a homosexual one hundred percent of the time, by no means, that he was discreet did not make him a virgin and much less a saint, had had many experiences throughout his short life, already knew the taste of female mouth, with soft lips, bulky, which felt gentle and full no matter how thin they were. In his early teens years he used to take refuge in the house of her friends, sweet girls who did not care about the war between the trve and the poser, where he felt more free to their own tastes and desires, so it was, in the house of Lena, half drunk, where he offered himself as an offering to practice kissing with the girls, left his lips at the mercy of pleasure, no deep feelings, only fun, the tingling of adrenaline that came down from his spine to his cock; but, not completely a cassanova, had a crush on the girl who he’d brought to his graduation from high school, and like everything in his life, his convictions were based on politics, perhaps he preferred to believe that when a relationship breaks up it was better to forget for the honor of his partner, He did not even deign to remember her name, but in long and icy nights he could not help remembering, not by desire, not at all, with her he knew the carnal charms of women, the soft breasts, the sweet smell, the fleshy and moist thighs, all the sweetness of the flowers of April, Pelle would not be like that.

He knew it perfectly well, Pelle’s body was stiff, hard, with his angular bones whose skin embraced like the sheath of a dagger, open, immaculate despite his wounds, thinking about his body, the anatomy of a malnourished, malformed adult man was being led to bite his lower lip until it bled, only evil creature like Pelle made the hands of the great Euronymous tremble as he drew up his fifth attempt at a decent letter, because he was blind and needed someone to hold his hand in the face of doubts that itched the frontal lobe, like the damn mental larva, needed mercy although the merciful response will take weeks to land on his purple wound, with the mental larva running through his body, the itching running from lip to hands, skin was unbearable his quick teeth bit his thumb as the letters became a jumble in front of his stunned face, the words danced mocking as if the last sentence written was nothing but a nonsense, idiots on paper appreciated that "Mauricio, how does it feel to kiss a man?" Was the introduction of the homosexual topic in conversation good enough? , did it feel natural to transition between his usual questioning of his life, the state of "masacre " and plans to collaborate one day and confess that he was thinking insistently about another man’s cock? He wanted to vomit, preferred that his mind get a ride to other places of his conscious, of his memory, he for his part already knew perfectly of the orientation of his friend of correspondence, is more, was one of the first things that Mauricio dared to share so openly, personally had no problem with fucking faggots, at all, maybe even a little envy because they had already earned hell just by being born under their condition, maybe Satan liked queers, Perhaps they fell under his grace and hell was like the pink areas of the city where he had to go to get some good leather pants, a large degenerate boulevard set with music of Cher and Madonna where you did not know which genre was who but everyone looked strange... Well, that is to say "I wouldn’t mind putting my penis there", that was his recurring thought every time he visited the streets where the depraved live, on the other hand the confession of his latin friend came to him in surprise, at the time, although shocking, he did not give him greater relevance but now his head seemed shaken by the weight of his own sexuality, perhaps Mauricio had only trusted him, maybe the weight of his homosexuality was a suffocating truth in a homophobic country like Colombia and caught in the metal environment had no time to breathe so he saw in the one lifeguard in the form of a communist Norwegian that he had never seen and at the end gave a little like if I knew it, or, perhaps, just maybe, in the hypothetical world of the maybe... Mauricio suspected him. Can homosexuals detect each other as vile dogs sniffing their butts? I didn’t want to know.

He knew of his rarity, of his particularity, the fear was that it would be noticed, if one knew it, many could know it, and that would not allow it, he was careful, as much as his brain commanded glucose of coca cola allowed it, was as insightful as his brain full of songs of venom and pamphlets of Trotsky allowed it, they had not caught it with any of their girlfriends, they did not deserve to be involved in the shit that was happening on the scene (unless they had a musical project and/or collaborated with one, in that case if they deserved it) their protective self would not allow someone who he held so dear to end up being harmed by his stupid self,his alter ego the evil, terrible, anarchocommiesatanicustheonlygodfatherandfounderof blackmetal Euronymous; Pelle is also gay.

Well, Pelle was gay, as gay as could be a man who talked so passionately about tits to the point of making an exclusive song about getting drunk and finally being worthy of playing with a pair of beautiful natural breasts, no lyrics obviously... It would be too much to write a melody thought of the female bust, he would go too far if he told what he really wanted to do with them, but despite all the expressed desire, of the times that in confidence admitted to be desperate for the touch of a woman, his continuous fantasies about having disgusting, bloody, brutal sex worthy of a B serie movie, like his first wank was with the natives girls of Holocaust Cannibal and as envy to the researcher for being able to bathe with them in the Amazon, of course, Pelle was dirty and unfiltered when given the total confidence to express his feelings, as his diatribe in defense of incest, yet deep down in his soul and his visors Øystein knew it, because the way he stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, as he fiddled with his hair rolling it in his fingers as thin as claws, the way he leaned his lanky body on his, looking for his look and he would do the same, there was no moment to which he could refer as explicitly romantic, they didn’t need it because of the nature of their relationship, the deep trust perverted in mutual obsession left no subject to discussion, could spend hours talking about the genius of his vocalist, of his "dead", of his talent, the morbosity of his essence, his vocal range, his commitment to the band and metal in general, which was not like other fake Swedish glamers who go by Stockholm with its ridiculous clothes of glitter, animal prints and effeminate make-up, of course, not in the name of the scene, would never declare aloud that he could spend hours watching the Swede doing nothing, walking through the forest, listening to music, talking about how evildead was one of the masterpieces of the last century or whether wolves beat vampires but he identified himself as a vampire so he couldn’t miss it, especially liked seeing him lying in bed, whether it was his own in his room with the smell of death, snus, and rotten flowers, he was a bit of a voyerist, he loved to see his body relaxed, totally, like some kind of specter where his slight breaths would make an illusion as if he were floating, they didn’t need to say anything, the letters would read that would respond taking the looks of Pelle as approval, denial and suggestions, there was something relaxing, almost erotic under his look in seeing his vocalist rest, fragile like a bomb.

Pelle was precious, he would say, his care was of greater importance, he could not afford to exhibit it, already dealing with a lot, with his mind, body, and soul, if he put another burden on him by revealing his subject could not even imagine how reactionary if the others knew that they had been a little more than six months snuggling each time they could, the comically ridiculous image of Pelle climbing his legs up over his lap, and for his part, would reciprocate by putting his hands on those delicate hams with his fingers going up, down, circling with the fingertips around his flesh covered in dirty denim, they wouldn’t talk, they wouldn’t look each other in the eyes, much less would discuss the subject, for what purpose? , their bodies were recognized as their minds were traveling to a dull state of consciousness, a place where they would not question the reasons of their pleasure at contact with another male, they would only enjoy it, would relax in mutual breaths and keep in their memory the trace of the body and the fragrance of the other; no one could see Per so perfect and umpolluted, all the honor, and glory to see the blond in his purest state was he, he who knew perfectly every part of his body, who had bathed, fed and sheltered him in the terrible nights of intense winter, who cured his wounds, kissed them, licked them like an old dog to his master, who defied his parents and ended up renting a house so that he no longer slept in a decaying car on some forgotten street at the mercy of the deadly north winds, he was the one who would give him his soul if he asked for it, his body if he needed it, and his blood if it deserved it, could not make him suffer, would be willing to maintain their ambiguous relationship containing all its desires in the air, in his mind, and especially in his timidly flirtatious caresses, so your query, just wanted to fantasize, Per was not like an ordinary man but in the end he was one like everyone else, he knew that if the Swede kissed him he would fall at his feet and surrender to his will, but if he took the dead body as his own... He didn’t know, the universe could explode.

At the end of the letter, where his hands danced opening his heart and mind, all the thoughts that came, the scattered memories, the explanation of their story, the fears, the doubts and the fervent passion that grew between them, all his secrets exposed in a sorrowful English, anxiously written, dizzy as if he had been beaten, read the last words with suspicion. In his total intimacy, he felt like millions of eyes were harassing his letters, digging through his sloppy writing, mumbling shit about his feelings, but the text only laughed at him.

"You are not obliged to say; if you want to keep it secret, I completely understand, but I would appreciate it if you shared the experience with me. I am really lost, I do not know how far I have come in this situation, I do not know how to start from here or if my act will lead me somewhere. Just waiting for your answer, some point from which to start, where to guide me. I only hope that, by our friendship, you can grant me two whims. The first: do not judge me so strongly by my acting. I’m as confused as you, as Pelle or anyone else who’s ever heard of our affair. Please, if you ever have a trial, don’t let me know; I really don’t need another executioner. My common sense is doing an exceptional job of keeping me awake at night. My second request is a little more severe. Whatever the conclusion, I ask you to, for pity’s sake, burn this letter, don’t let anyone look at it, keep the secret and as a sign of our brotherhood, I will do the same with yours. Don’t fail me".

The letter was finished, he could only admire his solemn shit work, just a sigh and signed it finally defeated, if a fag could not help him neither God nor Satan could, no longer felt defeated, only with a hangover of reality, licked her lips with silly doodles before signatures, slowly fold it into equal three parts, fiddle with paper before putting it in the envelope, as an act of sacrifice, and put one of the expensive stamps on the other side of the world, as he who puts a letter in a bottle to throw it into the open sea, the heaviness in the air seemed like a smell of death, not only by his numb muscles, Pelle had already arrived together with the morning, as the sun rose over all mental penumbra, he entered owner of the place, walking directly to the bed where he made a nest, his pale eyes like the summer sky looked at him expectantly, ordering without speaking that he should go to his side, he got up leaving his shrimp posture and went straight to his right, curl back up but this time absorbing his body like a black hole, feeding on its false light.

-Didn’t you sleep last night?

Question as his fingers meet the greasy blonde root of the Norwegian, who could only nod.

— I couldn’t; I preferred to answer letters and that, boring administrative stuff. You’re much better with the creative things, better stay on that part.

—I’ll shoot myself if I’m ever asked again about whether something is black metal or not. If you don’t know, don’t do anything — threaten the Swede, playing to tangle his guitar player’s hair and then continue with his talk of loose ideas — Last night, I dreamed something that might go well for the band, I don’t know, like it goes with everything.

— What is it, Dead?

— I dreamt that the fairies were asking me to kill myself.

[princess-lvcifer]

new year's eve

euro/dead • +4K • CW: smut (T!P x B!Ø), emotional hurt/comfort, implied alcohol and self-harm 🇪🇸 ao3

It had been a couple of hours since New Year's Eve, and Øystein was lying in a bed that wasn't his trying to process everything: the year, the night, his feelings for the person next to him trying to sleep in handcuffs... He didn't want the feeling to go any further, but he didn't want him to go away from him in any way. He wanted the year that had just arrived to be a good one and not to take him away from him, and to be with him for many more.

"I'm cold," the blond beside him said annoyed, snapping him out of his thoughts and making him turn his neck to his right to look at him, though he could barely see anything.

"You're Swedish," he said as he noticed him turn to his side and curl into a ball, face to face in the dark.

"And you're Norwegian, so?" This amused the guitarist, eliciting a sly grin and a snort through his nose as he turned to get into the same position. "Go ask for another blanket."

"Metalion will be asleep by now, I don't want to wake him," he replied.

"Then there's nothing left to do but pull your insides out to warm you up like in The Empire strikes back," Pelle joked not knowing that the guitarist wouldn't mind being destroyed by him in any way he could, just to make him happy.

"What if I just hug you?" he asked moving closer, putting his arm under his head so that he could use it as a pillow while he used his own hand. With his other arm he put his arm around him and even dared to stroke his back a little.

Pelle was a little surprised by such a gesture, almost freezing for a few seconds trying to process the moment because he wasn't used to physical contact, but it felt good and less cold, so he let it be and even made himself comfortable by intertwining their legs. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. The blond's nose brushed against his neck, and he could feel his breath. He wasn't the only one who could feel something, as Pelle could feel his heartbeat against his hands, close to his chest without being able to take them anywhere else.

But the heat was warming them both up, and the night and the alcohol didn't help because it made everyone feel too warm and secure.

"Øystein," he whispered to check if he was still awake after a few minutes.

"Mm?"

"Can I bite your neck? I want to know what it feels like," he added quickly not wanting to sound too weird, but he felt he was being provoked by having his neck so close. If the guitarist expressed discomfort in any way he would excuse himself by saying he was joking, lying.

For a second Øystein thought he was dreaming, that maybe he didn't remember that he'd had too much to drink and had ended up in a drunken coma. It all seemed too good to be true, he couldn't believe it. It was surreal enough that he'd ended up sharing a tiny bed with him, and that they'd ended up cuddling in the cold, without adding that to it. He knew there was most likely no ulterior motive behind such a request, and that maybe he should stop it as he wasn't quite himself because of the alcohol and blood loss from the cuts he'd given himself earlier, but he'd been drinking alcohol too, so he couldn't help but be equally sincere.

"Yes," he answered quickly but trying as hard as he could to hide the fact that he wanted that and much more, "but don't hurt me," he added knowing how his friend was fascinated by blood, not wanting to get hurt and above all not wanting to stain more sheets with blood.

"Relax, I'll be gentle," he said as he brought his hands wrapped around the collar of his shirt before slowly planting small kisses on his neck, testing the ground before deciding where to bite him.

At those words and such an action Øystein couldn't help but blush, opening his eyes like vinyl records and staring into the dark nothingness as he noticed his lips up and down, and he could even swear he could notice a small smile. Then, at last, Pelle opened his mouth and dug his teeth into his flesh. At first he did it with no force and he could even feel his tongue retract, but then he pressed harder and caused the guitarist to let out a small moan that embarrassed him, but to his luck Pelle ignored it. What he didn't know was that he liked that and it provoked him even more, causing him to bite him on other parts of his neck.

The atmosphere warmed up, the cold was long gone. They were too excited and both could feel it, in their own bodies and in each other's bodies. Needing more and almost without thinking Øystein put his hands on the blond's cheeks and bent down to kiss him now, on the lips. At first it was a shy and awkward peak as it was the Swede's first kiss and it caught him by surprise, but he quickly gave him to understand that he didn't dislike it and played along until their tongues were deep inside each other. When they broke apart for lack of air Pelle bit him and stretched his lip, teasing him but making him laugh quietly.

Then the guitarist got up and sat on his crotch, and though he could barely see anything, he could swear Pelle smiled — or at least he wanted to believe he smiled, the same way he did. He leaned over him as he rested his hands on his chest and slid them down to his shoulders, bringing their torsos and crotches together to kiss him on the lips and neck as the blond had done to him earlier.

If he hadn't been handcuffed he probably would have grabbed his hips or buttocks, he had to settle for draping his arms over his head. The guitarist felt the cold metal chain of the handcuffs on the back of his neck, pushing him down, but he didn't care because he didn't want to be separated from the vocalist's lips, who was trying to move his hips to brush against his erect crotch. Well pleased, Øystein decided to whisper in his ear:

"Can I touch you?" he asked, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I promise I'll make you feel very good."

"Yeah," he answered quickly, and as needy as he was.

He sat back up and adjusted himself, pulling down both their trousers and pants. He warmed his hand by rubbing them together and spitting saliva into his dominant hand before he began to massage his member, feeling it so close for the first time — feeling even his veins as he massaged it from bottom to top slowly at first, and tightening his grip when he reached its tip.

But masturbating is as boring as it is tiring, and Øystein also needed satisfaction and rubbing, so he settled back to sitting on top of his crotch, bringing their penises together at the bottom of both of them, the most sensitive part. He put his hands on his abdomen, grabbing his shirt; and then he began to move his hips rhythmically.

"You look like a dog in heat, rubbing yourself against me like that," he said with a certain mocking tone, but not maliciously.

"Better than a cat, isn't it?" he asked playfully.

He wished they were with the light on so he could see Pelle's facial expression, so he could know if he was doing it right and behold his beauty. And he wished they were alone so they could make noise and try to go further.

"Fuck, I want your hands on me and to feel you from the inside..." He dared to moan in a whisper, and to his surprise, the Swede brought his cuffed hands over his and said:

"There is a way you can feel me from the inside" and he was right. He didn't want to let go of his hands, but he wanted to satisfy him and time was rewarding, so he let go and slid back into the sheets.

He grabbed his cock again and masturbated it a little as he wet his lips with his tongue, still not processing what he was about to do once and for all. He had imagined it many times, and didn't think he'd ever get to do it for real at some point. With the tip of his tongue he brushed from the lowest to the highest, causing the blond to shiver and his breathing to quicken even more. When he reached the tip he sucked it like a lollipop, causing the blond to stifle a moan at such pleasure he had never felt before and bringing his hands to the brunet's head, grabbing his hair and pushing his head down wanting to feel more. That satisfied Øystein as it showed he was liking what he was doing to him, but he also felt nervous as he didn't know if his mouth was big enough to fit his entire member inside him. Putting that aside, he dropped saliva which he collected in his mouth to moisten it, so that his lips would slide in better. When he opened his mouth he slowly pushed his member in, and Pelle clung tighter to him. He tried to give him as much pleasure as he could with everything his mouth had to offer, except his teeth. When he got tired, which was often due to lack of practice, he went back to massaging it with his hand.

"I'm going to cum Øystein," he moaned clutching his hair even tighter as he was giving him oral sex again. That was music to the Norwegian's ears, his new favourite style of music now that he had finally heard it.

"Cum in my mouth," he said at one point pulling his member out of his mouth as he masturbated him, wanting to answer him as he didn't want to stain the sheets leaving evidence of what they had done — but for better or worse, Pelle couldn't help but cum before he could merge their bodies back together (though technically he did cum in his mouth as some of his semen jumped to his lips, and he wiped it off by running his tongue over it). Wanting to avoid staining the sheets but still wanting to satisfy him, he just kept masturbating his tip with his hand, capturing his cum inside his palm as he listened to him sigh deeply.

When the room fell silent again he knew he was done. Wanting to clean himself up and finish satisfying himself, he clumsily climbed out of bed. When he landed his feet on the floor his legs trembled a little, from the change of position and the fatigue of sitting spread-eagled. He pulled up his pants and trousers, went to the door and opened it slowly and quietly, opening it a little to peek in and see if anyone was there: as he suspected, there was no one in the hallway and no light was coming from the other rooms. He went to the bathroom on the floor he was in, using his left arm as a blind man's stick, and when he got there he locked himself in without turning on the light, not wanting to attract anyone's attention or disturb his eyes.

Once there he pulled down his pants and trousers again, carefully took toilet paper and still with his dominant hand full of his Swedish friend's semen he started to masturbate himself in the same way he masturbated him, imagining he was doing it until he cummed on the paper which he threw in the trash. He would have preferred to flush it down the toilet and flush it away for good and leave no evidence, but he preferred not to make any noise if it wasn't absolutely necessary, and probably neither Metalion nor his parents would be looking at the little bin in that bathroom with a magnifying glass. Then he poured soap on his hands and turned on the tap, running a thin trickle of water to wash them, then wiped them on the hand towel and finally went back into the room.

"Did I do well?" he asked once he was back in bed, with both of them staring at the dark ceiling.

"You ask as if I were an expert."

"Right," laughed Øystein quietly, and also very tired. How could he not be tired at that time of the morning and after drinking alcohol, having sex and cumming?

They cuddled up again and there wasn't much more to say. They didn't have time to process what they had just done either, as they were so exhausted that they fell asleep quickly, not noticing how their eyes were closing.

The next morning it was the guitarist who woke up first. He was bored and wanted to eat breakfast and take an Ibuprofen for the hangover, but he didn't want to wake Pelle up so he just stared at his back in silence (as there was finally some light in the room, coming in through the window), waiting patiently for him to wake up while he remembered what happened the night before and wondered what his relationship with him would be like from then on. He couldn't help but get a little excited.

Figuring out that Pelle had woken up wasn't difficult, his breathing changed a lot but he still looked like he was sleeping because he acted like he was. Øystein thought that maybe he acted like that thinking he was sleeping and not wanting to wake him up if he was, like him.

"Good morning," he said daring to hug him from behind, even though he was smaller.

"Good morning," he replied as he pulled away from him and got out of bed to go to the door, not even looking at him for a second.

Øystein was a bit puzzled, but thought that maybe it was just his imagination, that he was simply in a hurry to go to the bathroom to relieve himself and/or have breakfast. He followed, there was no point in staying in bed alone.

When they went down to the first floor of the house they saw that they weren't the only ones awake and they all had breakfast together around the living room table with the TV on (although without paying much attention to it because they were just awake and hungover). Metalion handed out Ibuprofen like bingo cards and they waited for it to take effect as quickly as the coffees they drank. Øystein thought he might have to help Pelle eat breakfast, considering his hands were cuffed, but he managed fine on his own. What he did help him with was changing the bandages on his arms and re-disinfecting his cuts in the bathroom while the others cleaned the house.

"Yeah, yeah," the guitarist whispered after the vocalist winced and grunted in annoyance at the stinging the Betadine was causing in his wounds, trying to calm him down and let him see that he understood it wasn't a pleasant sensation. The scene was not pleasant for him either, and it was worse to see him self-harming.

He silently bandaged his arms with great care, as if they were made of porcelain and about to break. When he was done Pelle whispered a small "Thank you" and there was nothing more to say, like last night. The Swede was the first to leave the bathroom, almost seeming to be in a hurry. At no point in the morning did he look him in the face, and though he knew he was shy and found it hard to do such a thing, it didn't happen with him being close. He knew he was tense, and that he was running away from him for some reason. Øystein looked at himself in the mirror, searching for evidence of the crime on his neck — luckily for him there was none as Pelle didn't bite him too hard the night before, the only evidence he had was his memories and his groin pain.

When they left they didn't go straight to their house, they went to a police station to have the handcuffs removed, as they didn't have a key. Luckily they didn't have to wait long to be attended to, nor did they have to give many detailed explanations, nor did the policemen see the state of Pelle's arms as he was wearing a black leather jacket.

The car rides were silent, oblivious to the metal music playing in the background while Øystein drove and Pelle looked out of the passenger seat window, fist to his cheek.

And then they finally arrived home. No one was there, they were alone at last, but still the Swede locked himself in his room. The Norwegian didn't want to take it personally, he knew that after being surrounded by people he needed to recharge his social battery by being alone and that he was probably still tired. He locked himself in his room to write letters and a few hours later Jan and Jørn arrived.

Although he didn't want to accept it because he was very positive as the hours passed and the more they were forced to interact by living together, he realised that he was probably the problem, and that made him nervous and desperate. He didn't know what he had done to make him uncomfortable, he didn't know what was the straw that broke the camel's back — he didn't know what was going through the Swede's mind, he didn't know what he thought of him or whether he was angry or disappointed.

On the evening of the second day of January all the members of Mayhem were in the living room, relaxing watching a movie on TV after eating leftovers they had brought home for dinner, and the moment that made them both most uncomfortable came: a sex scene, and to top it off, it was between a blond boy being mounted by a girl with long black hair.

"I want your hands on me," moaned the girl in the film as she grabbed the boy's hands and put them on her breasts.

"You're fucking joking," thought Øystein as he swallowed nervously, but a sudden movement he saw out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as well as an all too familiar voice.

"Good night," said Pelle as he got up from the sofa and headed for his bedroom.

"Enjoy the handjob," Jan said matter-of-factly, not taking his eyes off the screen.

He sighed deeply as he watched the Swede's back as he headed for the stairs to the first floor, knowing that he didn't want to keep things so tense with him and that he had to do something about it. If Pelle wouldn't go to him, he would have to go to Pelle. And that's what he did as soon as the two of them were alone in the house.

As soon as he approached the open door of his room he saw him lying on his bed (or rather, filthy mattress) staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, though he wasn't disassociating with a blank stare. He knocked on the door to let him know he was there, and with permission to enter.

"We need to talk," he said approaching him, ignoring the mess that was in many ways the room — he was used to that and many other things. Pelle didn't answer, didn't even look at him and tried to ignore him as he took the liberty of sitting cross-legged in front of the mattress to the right of his head. "I know you're uncomfortable," he began to speak crestfallen and looking at the floor, this time he was the one avoiding eye contact, "and I know I'm to blame..." He paused and sighed deeply, trying to find the right words even though he thought about it time before, but with his nerves they left his mind. "I don't know what made you uncomfortable but I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention. I don't want to make excuses but I was drunk and horny, and I like you," Pelle finally reacted the instant he heard that confession opening his eyes like vinyl records, turning his neck to his right to look at him and getting up to sit in the same position as the guitarist, "so I got too excited, I'm really sorry."

"Do you like me?" He asked surprised as well as confused as soon as he had the chance to speak, and Øystein finally looked up to look at him, but the look only lasted a second as he turned his eyes away nervously, his heart pounding. Again he couldn't believe what he was experiencing.

"Yeah, I know it's probably a little weird and I'm sorry if I'm grossing you out and making you uncomfortable..." He shrugged apologetically.

"No, it's not that," he hastened to correct him. "It's just that I don't understand why..."

"Fuck, Pelle," he said reattaching his eyes, now longer, "how can I not like you?" he subtly shook his head, letting hin know that he didn't understand. Øystein swallowed and looked away for a second, searching for the right words and realizing that he finally had the chance to express everything he really felt for him — which he wanted to do but at the same time he was afraid to open up so much. But one thing was for sure — Øystein was brave, and it was that moment or never, so he got emboldened and looked back into those blue eyes he loved so much. "You are authentic, unique, interesting, funny, attractive, passionate and talented in all the art you create. We have tastes in common and you take the band as seriously as I do. We've known each other for a long time and we've been through a lot together. I like being around you, and I miss you even when you're by my side without talking to me. Touch makes affection, I guess," he added with a shrug.

"Of course," he said holding back his laughter, referring to what happened between them in Metalion's bed, but without malice. He simply wanted to defuse the tension with humour, and luckily for both of them it worked, for it made his friend laugh quietly, and he looked away, blushing and shaking his head.

But when the humour passed he looked down again as he fiddled nervously with his hands, silently searching his mind for something to add, and mostly processing what he had just admitted out loud — no, he just didn't like him, he was in love with him.

"Thank you," the blond whispered grabbing his hands in an attempt to calm him down and show him how grateful he really was, and making him raise his head to look at him in surprise. They both looked at each other directly and fixedly, though Øystein couldn't help but look at his lips for a microsecond, and when he looked back at him his eyes began to water with nervousness. "I have to..." Now it was Pelle who looked away, as if he was going to find the words he found by looking around the dark-haired man, "think and assimilate a lot of things, really. That's why I've been so distant these days, not because of anything you've done," he said shaking his head subtly, making his long and beautiful blond hair move, "but I want you to know that you don't disgust me and I appreciate your feelings a lot," he said tightening his grip, "I appreciate you," he said now, nodding.

Øystein smiled with a warm and relieved smile. He had gotten what he wanted, which was to clear up doubts and get back to normality between them. He hadn't asked him any questions, so he didn't expect any answers from the Swede. It is one thing to confess what you feel and another thing to ask someone to be your partner — they are two different things, not to be confused although most people do. Luckily for him Pelle understood him in many ways, and that was another thing he liked about him. He didn't want to burden him with such a request. If Pelle wanted to be with him, he would leave it up to him to decide when to start a romantic relationship if he felt ready for it — although he would settle for being friends, flatmates and bandmates.

[nottesfera]

Love/Paranoia - zeromechanism - Mayhem (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

Never thought about using tumblr to share my fics before, but I figured that would be a great thing to out myself as a fanfic writer lol

I'm writing this thing!

Let me know if you read it and what you think about it, I'll keep you informed when I update. It usually takes a while but I promise I'll do my best <3

[evelina18-6-blog]

I have a lot of unfinished drawings, this will be the next one. But I want to make a EuroDead drawing in LoC version, I also wish to illustrate a couple of fanfics but first I must consult the authors... And I must continue my own fic 😵

[plusvanity]

Do you have any tips for writing? I just started reading your story on ao3 and holy shit you're an amazing writer! So yeah I thought maybe you got some advice for me, cause I wanna start writing a Mayhem fanfic myself but I don't really have any experience lmfao.

Damn. Thank you very much if you think that about me! 🖤

Writing should come naturally. You can tell when someone is forcing themselves to write something, so firstly, I'd suggest you take your time to think in-depth about the story and its plot. Try to visualise it in your mind. It's easier to write a scene once you have a full comprehension of it. It's also easier to describe the environment and create a matching atmosphere once you see it clearly.

Try to imagine a dialogue between characters and make them different (based on their personalities) voices. Many people make the mistake of writing two characters in 'the same voice' so to speak, when they should be two separate individuals existing simultaneously.

If you have random moments of 'inspiration', take full advantage of them. Make notes on your phone with random fragments of your story that you want to include at some point in the future. Sometimes you need to write down an idea/ scenario/ dialogue right away because you know that when you'll think about it later, you'll miss on a lot of initial effectiveness.

I'd suggest making a bit of research on Øystein and Pelle (I suppose you want to write eurodead) because they get misinterpreted a lot. You don't have to be big into psychoanalysis to write their personas the right way, but you have to be careful to keep them 'in character'.

I don't know what else to say, unless you want to ask something more specific.

Writing should be fun and entertaining, so don't be too hard on yourself and enjoy the process! 🖤

[diediegamchicothdie]

AND SORROW, AGAIN

Yo, escribí un fanfic one short después de ser baneada de Wattpad y de este sitio justamente por el tipo de fanfics que solía escribir????? Si PQ no (más notas al final de esta oda a la literatura)

Su cabeza daba vueltas, levemente, como un efecto parecido al  narcótico, como una calada de yerba, un viaje que terminaba en pesadilla, pocas cosas lo llevaban a ese estado en sobriedad, había estado pensando, pensando demasiado en el sueco, en su nariz prominente, los ojos muertos y los dientes amarillentos, no pensaba en el cómo lo solía hacer, alardeando de su "dead", el hombre más brutal que podrías encontrar, no, esta vez no, porque la noche del 89 era larga, la entidad del caos se dejaba caer, desvelado por las cortinas del temor se habrían ante los intensos ojos de Øystein que no podían parar de observar a Per, desear du piel, desde el cabello rubio platino hasta sus huesudos, su sangre, las manos con uñas mordidas, dedos cortados, piel levantada, su carne, el aroma de snus putrefacto, carne descarnada de animales muertos que colgaban orgullos en el techo como el cuerpo rígido cubierto de pelo espeso que se ocultaba dentro de la funda de la almohada que desprendía los dulces susurros hasta su cerebro, como envidiaba el no poder meterse entre sus sueños y morder su cerebro. Pensaba en sus vueltas por el bosque, los pies descalzos llenos de tierra, su pecho lampiño que subía y bajaba cada vez que le miraba, ahogándose en el oxígeno frío del bosque que rodeaba aquel granero, pensaba en Per, sus ojos emocionados cuando le prometía la gloria, sus delgados labios que le sonreían con los ojos cerrados, como quien se aferra a su última esperanza. Pensaba en Per, en Pelle, en Yngve, en Ohlin como suyo, y eso para sí era de por sí un pecado.  

A Øystein nunca le había importado parecer un marica, eso lo hacía más desafiante bajo su mirada, quizás las personas de todo tipo se escandalizaban al ver decencia básica, y claro, asustar a los viejos siendo un adorador de Satán es una cosa bastante sencilla, desconcertar a tus compañeros de culto al tratar a una chica como un ser humano o no odiar a los de otra etnia porque si es una cosa totalmente distinta, quizás era muy satanista para los puristas, muy bien santo para los satánicos, pero, el problema real  venía cuando el jugueteo entre la actitud maricona y la realidad palpable de serlo se volvían una línea difusa, porque por los labios de su amigo no le importaría borrarla por completo, tampoco es como si fuera un homosexual al cien por ciento del tiempo, para nada, que fuera discreto no lo volvía un virgen y mucho menos un santo, había tenido muchas experiencias a lo largo de su corta vida, ya conocía el sabor de la boca femenina, con labios suaves, abultados, que se sentían gentiles y llenos sin importar que fueran delgados. En sus primeros años de adolescencia solía refugiarse en la casa de sus amigas, dulces chicas que no les importaba la guerra entre el trve y el poser, donde se sentía más libre ante sus propios gustos y deseos, así fue, en la casa de Lena, medio borracho donde se ofreció como ofrenda para practicar besos con las chicas, dejo sus labios a la merced del placer, sin sentimientos profundos, solo la diversión, el cosquilleo de la adrenalina que bajaba desde su espina hasta su verga; pero, no era completamente un perro, había sentido algo por la chica a la cual llevo a la graduación del colegio, y como todo en su vida, sus convicciones se basaban en la política, quizás prefería creer que cuando se rompe una relación era mejor olvidar por el honor de su pareja, ni siquiera se dignaba a recordar su nombre, pero en noches largas y heladas no podía evitar recordar, no por deseo, para nada, con ella conoció los encantos carnales de las mujeres, los senos suaves, el olor dulce, los muslos carnosos y húmedos, toda la dulzura de las flores de abril, Pelle no sería así.

Lo sabía perfectamente bien, el cuerpo de Pelle era rígido, duro, con sus huesos angulosos cuya piel abrazaba, como la funda de un puñal, aperlado, inmaculado a pesar de sus heridas, el pensar en su cuerpo, la anatomía de un desnutrido hombre adulto mal formado lo llevaban a morder su labio inferior hasta sangrar, solo criatura maligna como Pelle hacían las manos del gran Euronymous temblar mientras redactaba su quinto intento de una carta decente, porque estaba ciego y necesitaba alguien que le tomara de la mano ante las dudas que picaban el lóbulo frontal, como la maldita larva mental, necesitaba piedad aunque la respuesta misericordiosa tardará semanas aterrizar en su herida morada, con la larva mental recorriendo su cuerpo, la picazón recorriendo desde el labio hasta sus manos, la piel era insoportable sus dientes rápidos mordieron su dedo pulgar mientras las letras se volvían un revoltijo frente a su aturdido rostro, las palabras danzaban burlonas como si la última frase escrita no fuera más que un sin sentido, idiotas en el papel se apreciaba aquel "Mauricio, ¿Cómo se siente besar a un hombre?", ¿era bastante buena la introducción del tema homosexual en la conversación?, ¿acaso se sentía natural la transición entre sus habituales cuestionamientos de su vida, el estado de masacre y los planes de colaborar algún día y confesarle que estaba pensando insistentemente en la verga de otro hombre? Quería vomitar, prefería que su mente divagara a otros lugares de su consciente, de su memoria, él por su parte, ya sabía perfectamente de la orientación de su amigo de correspondencia, es más, fue una de las primeras cosas que Mauricio se atrevió a compartirle tan abiertamente, en lo personal no tenía ningún problema con los putos maricones, para nada, quizás hasta un poco de envidia porque ya se habían ganado el infierno solo por nacer bajo su condición, quizás a Satanás le agradaban los maricas, a lo mejor caían bajo su gracia y el infierno era como las zonas rosas de la ciudad donde se había obligado a ir para conseguir unos buenos pantalones de cuero, un gran boulevard degenerado ambientado con música de Cher y Madonna donde no sabias de que género era quien pero todos lucían extrañamente... Bien, es decir “no me molestaría meter mi pene ahí”, ese era su pensamiento recurrente cada vez que visitaba las calles donde viven los depravados, por otro lado la confesión de su amigo latino le llego de sorpresa, en su momento aunque impactante no le dio mayor relevancia pero ahora su cabeza parecía sacudida por el peso de su propia sexualidad, quizás Mauricio solo había confiado en él, tal vez el peso de su homosexualidad era una verdad asfixiante en un país homofóbico como Colombia y atrapado en el ambiente machista del metal no tenía un momento para respirar entonces vio en el un salvavidas en forma de un noruego comunista que nunca había visto y al final daba un poco igual si lo sabía, o, quizás, solo quizás, en el hipotético mundo de los tal vez… Mauricio sospechaba de él. ¿Pueden los homosexuales detectarse entre sí como viles perros olfateando sus traseros? No quería saberlo.

Conocía de su rareza, de su particularidad, el temor era de que se notara, si lo sabía uno, lo podían saber muchos, y eso no lo permitiría, era cuidadoso, lo más que su cerebro comandado de glucosa de coca cola se lo permitía, era perspicaz lo más que su cerebro lleno de canciones de venom y panfletos de Trotsky se lo permitía, no lo habían captado con ninguna de sus noviecillas, ellas no merecían verse involucradas en la mierda que estuviera sucediendo en la escena (a menos que tuvieran un proyecto musical y/o colaboraran con uno, en ese caso si lo merecían) su yo protector no permitiría que alguien que estimaba tanto terminara perjudicado por su yo estúpido, malvado, terrible, anarcosatanicocomunistaateoodiardordeLavey único padrino fundador del black metal Euronymous; Pelle, también era gay.

Bueno, Pelle era gay, tan gay como podía ser un hombre que hablara con tanta pasión sobre las tetas al punto de hacer una canción una y exclusiva acerca de emborracharse y finalmente ser digno de poder jugar con un par de lindos senos naturales, sin letra, obviamente… ya sería demasiado escribir una melodía pensado en el busto femenino, se excedería si contara lo que realmente quería hacerles, pero a pesar de todo el deseo expresado, de las veces que en confianza admitió estar desesperado por el tacto de una mujer, sus fantasías continuas acerca de tener sexo asqueroso, sangriento, brutal, digno de película de serie B, como su primera paja fue con las nativas de Holocausto Caníbal y como envidia al investigador por poder bañarse con ellas en el Amazonas, claro, Pelle era sucio y sin filtros cuando se le daba la confianza total de expresar sus sentimientos, como su diatriba en defensa del incesto, sin embargo, en el fondo de su alma y sus viseras Øystein lo sabía, porque la manera en que acariciaba el dorso de su mano con su pulgar, como jugueteaba con su cabello enrollándolo en sus dedos tan delgados como garras, la forma en que apoyaba su larguirucho cuerpo sobre el suyo, buscando su mirada y el, por su parte, haría lo mismo, no había ningún momento al cual podría referirse como explícitamente romántico, no lo necesitaban debido a la naturaleza de su relación, la confianza profunda pervertida en la obsesión mutua no dejaba tema a discusión, podría pasar horas hablando de la genialidad de su vocalista, de su “dead”, de su talento, la morbosidad de su esencia, su rango vocal, su compromiso con la banda y el metal en general, que no era como otros falsos glamers suecos que se van por Estocolmo con su ropa ridícula de brillos, estampados de animal y maquillaje afeminado, claro, no en nombre de la escena, jamás declararía en voz alta que podía pasar horas observando al sueco haciendo nada, caminar por el bosque, escuchar música, hablar de como evildead era una de las obras maestras del ultimo siglo o si los lobos le ganaban a los vampiros pero él mismo se identificaba como vampiro, así que no podía perder, especialmente le agradaba verlo tumbado en la cama, ya sea la propia en su cuarto con olor a muerte, snus, y flores podridas, era un poco voyerista, adoraba ver su cuerpo relajado, totalmente, como una especie de espectro donde sus leves respiraciones harían una ilusión como si estuviera flotando, no necesitaban decir nada, el leería cartas que respondería tomando las miradas de Pelle como aprobación, negación y sugerencias, había algo relajante, casi erótico bajo su mirar en ver a su vocalista reposar, frágil como una bomba.

Pelle era precioso, diría que sus cuidados eran de mayor importancia, no podía permitirse exhibirlo, ya lidiaba con mucho, con su mente, cuerpo, y alma, si le ponía otro peso al revelar su asunto no podía siquiera imaginar como reaccionaria si los demás supieran que llevaban un poco más de seis meses acurrucándose cada vez que podían, la imagen cómicamente ridícula de Pelle subiendo sus piernas encima de su regazo, y por su parte, correspondería poniendo sus manos en aquellos delicados muslos de fiambre subiendo, bajando, dando círculos con las yemas de sus dedos alrededor de su carne cubierta de la sucia mezclilla, no se hablarían, tampoco se mirarían a los ojos, mucho menos conversarían del tema, ¿con qué fin?, sus cuerpos se reconocían al igual que sus mentes que viajaban a un estado apagado de conciencia, un lugar donde no se iban a cuestionar los porque de su placer al contacto de otro macho, solo lo disfrutarían, se relajarían en las respiraciones mutuas y mantendrían en su memoria el trazo del cuerpo y la fragancia del otro; nadie podía ver a Per así todo el derecho, honor, y gloria de ver al rubio en su estado mas puro era él quien conocía perfectamente cada parte de su cuerpo, quien lo había bañado, alimentado y abrigado en las terribles noches de intenso invierno, quien le curaba las heridas, las besaba, se las lamia como un viejo perro a su amo, quien desafío a sus padres y termino alquilando una casa para que este ya no durmiera en un destartalado auto en alguna calle olvidada a merced de los vientos mortales del norte, él era quien le daría su alma si se lo pidiera, su cuerpo si lo requería, y su sangre si lo ameritaba, no lo podría hacer sufrir, estaría dispuesto a mantener su relación ambigua conteniendo todos sus deseos en el aire, en su mente, y especialmente en sus caricias tímidamente coquetas, por eso su consulta, solo quería fantasear, Per no era como un hombre común pero al final era uno como todos, él sabia que si el sueco lo besaba caería a su pies y se rendiría a su voluntad, pero si el tomara el cuerpo muerto como suyo… no lo sabía, el universo podría explotar.

Al final de la carta, donde sus manos danzaron abriendo su corazón y su mente, todos los pensamientos que llegaron, los recuerdos esparcidos, la explicación de su historia, los miedos, las dudas y la ferviente pasión que crecía entre ambos, todos sus secretos expuestos en un penoso inglés, ansiosamente redactado, mareado como si le hubieran dado una paliza, leyó las últimas palabras con recelo. En su total intimidad, se sentía con millones de ojos acosando sus letras, hurgando en su desprolija redacción, murmurando mierda acerca de sus sentimientos, pero el texto solo se reía de él.

“No estás en obligación de decirlo; si lo quieres mantener en secreto, lo entiendo completamente, pero te agradecería si me compartieras la experiencia. Realmente estoy perdido, no sé a qué punto he llegado en esta situación, no sé cómo partir desde aquí o si mi actuar me llevará a algún lugar. Solo espero tu respuesta, algún punto de donde partir, de donde guiarme. Solo espero que, por nuestra amistad, puedas concederme dos caprichos. El primero: no me juzgues tan fuertemente por mi actuar. Yo estoy tan confundido como tú, como Pelle o como cualquier otro que se enterara de nuestro asunto. Por favor, si llegas a tener un juicio, no me lo hagas saber; la verdad, no necesito otro verdugo. Mi sentido común está haciendo un trabajo más que excepcional manteniéndome despierto por la noche. Mi segunda petición es un poco más severa. Sea cual sea la conclusión, te pido que, por piedad, quemes esta carta, no dejes que nadie la mire, quédate con el secreto y, como en señal de nuestra hermandad, yo haré lo mismo con la tuya. No me falles”.

La carta había terminado, solo la podía admirar solemne su obra de mierda, solo un suspiro y la firmo finalmente derrotado, si un marica no lo podía ayudar ni Dios ni Satán podrían, ya no se sentía derrotado, solo con una resaca de realidad, lamio sus labios haciendo tontos garabatos antes de firmas, lentamente la doblo en tres partes iguales, jugueteo con el papel antes de meterla en el sobre, como un actos de sacrificio, y puso una de las costosas estampillas al otro lado del mundo, como quien pone una carta en una botella para tirarla al mar abierto, la pesadez en el aire parecía un olor a muerte, no solo por sus músculos entumecidos, Pelle ya había llegado junto la mañana, como el sol que se alza sobre toda penumbra mental, entro dueño del lugar, caminando directamente a la cama donde se hizo un nido, sus ojos pálidos como el cielo de verano lo miraron expectantes, ordenando sin hablar que fuera a su lado, se levanto dejando su postura de camarón y fue directamente a su diestra, volviendo enroscarse pero esta vez absorbiendo su cuerpo como si fuera un agujero negro, alimentándose de su falsa luz.

— ¿No dormiste anoche?

Cuestiono mientras sus dedos se encontraban con la raíz rubia grasosa del noruego, quien solo pudo asentir.

— No pude; preferí responder cartas y eso, cosas administrativas aburridas. Eres mucho mejor con lo creativo, mejor quédate en esa parte.

—Me voy a pegar un tiro si vuelvo a ser consultado acerca de si algo es black metal o no. Si no lo saben, no lo hagan — amenazó el sueco, jugando a enredar el cabello de su guitarrista para luego continuar con su charla de ideas sueltas — Anoche, soñé algo que podría ir bien para la banda, no sé, como que va con todo.

—¿Qué es?

—Soñé que las hadas me pedían que me suicidara.

Ha pasado un largo tiempo desde que no escribía, simplemente no tenía la motivación para hacerlo, pero al parecer chadpelle ya se cansó de escribir fanfics y ahora me debo alimentar por mi cuenta, como sea, dudo que lo traduzca en inglés ya que no soy muy buena escribiendo en ese idioma, necesitaría ayuda para adaptar algunos conceptos o al menos empezar mi clase de literatura inglesa (lol), como sea, espero seguir escribiendo en el futuro. Si les gusto digan algo carajo, empiecen a escribir!!!

[diediegamchicothdie]

Heaven's on Fire

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Born to run naked in the forest, forced to work.

2/?

Also available in AO3!

Once he had heard that silly phrase, he did not know which silly phrase, but somewhere in his subconscious there must be some cheesy phrase, like the old people say. It could be something, be careful with what you wish for, choose your battles well, perhaps weigh before acting. If some of those phrases had been used a couple of hours earlier, if I had understood the weight of those words, he would not have reached that point. It was late, quite late, because the specter presented itself again before him, although now much cleaner. With his hair not perfectly combed in a lazy ponytail, but there was some effort in the action, clean clothes, a navy sweater  (or perhaps king, or cobalt, had no delicacy in the name of colors), some jeans well-placed at the hip and without holes, the shoes strangely white. The prolific image clashed with the chaotic nature of the blond, who had probably never seen himself in this way. Standing on his weak legs, he now looked like a kind of good boy, far away from the stage, lights and rotting smell. Thomas’s lips felt dry suddenly, as if his soul escaped from his body, suddenly his body began to feel warm. 

—You are here now.

He asserted with a cold aura that contrasted with the heat that was beginning to rise up through his lungs. Thomas’s look with sharp properties, as if he could break the slim body in front of his eyes. So different, but so familiar. Per, for his part, pulled his right hand out of his trouser pocket playing shyly with his collar, looking for a second the words, Thomas knew he was struggling to insult in tongues.

— Yeah, you gave me a job yesterday.

He pointed to the child with the greatest tranquility in the world, as if he was innocent of his past acts, as if he had not been harassed, threatened and more recently robbed.

—Yeah, I gave you a job yesterday, but you stole a couple of records yesterday.

Per shrugged, subtracting the importance of the weight of Yngve’s words — Your dad is rich, sure wouldn’t mind a couple of missing pirate records — Thomas' look fell bewildered before Per’s eyes, they looked much bluer than yesterday — If you want an employee?

— Yes, if you’re as brazen working as talking to your superior.

Per shrugged his shoulders, walking back behind the counter. Thomas just let it pass, making space near him, reviewing the terms of the contract, nothing too elaborate. Would assume basic duties of servicing, cleaning and handling the warehouse. That duty extended to days when the day was extended for meetings of fans of different bands or “private meetings”. Just another fancy name for the parties of Quorthon full of Posers and Groupies, but that was no longer their business. 

The chestnut man noticed the blonde’s breaths, they were not subtle, a mockery of his own character that had melted so much into his character, each breath reminded him how alive he was. His flesh opened and closed its ribs that would surely strike hard against his lungs and heart, a bear trap on his body. At that moment he just wondered how nervous Per would feel in that environment, It would be like his first day of school? , he did not remember his own very well, never took much importance to educational institutions, would the blond mind the weight of education in Scandinavia? Another thought breath came, his eyes turned to those of Per, who from now on seemed tired, really was not material for an employee, but, if he had wanted someone efficient, would not have offered the job.

— And sign here…

He finished in a soft tone of voice. Per nodded, leaving his signature with slow movements, he understood, surely he also did not believe that this moment was possible. They felt connected by unbelief, after a Cold War extended for a couple of years, could breathe again or at least that hopes Thomas, knew that the blonde was not to give his arm to bend. He notices the delicacy of Per’s chest as he straightened, his back going backwards and then coming back, walking a little before returning his sight to Thomas, inquisitive. His fingers played shyly with each other. His lips gathered to touch his tongue and then leave, Thomas began to raise his gaze to the pale face, forgetting a little of his chest. Per knew where he was looking, it was not as if he would bother him, Well, perhaps he was upset by the curiosity that it generated, What so much he looked in his chest? He wanted to know, because he was unaware that every breath he took feed the fire under the feet of the chestnut. 

 With their eyes fixed, the air heavy, there was nothing else to speak, even if it would always be difficult for the Per to take the word — And now what? 

He asked strangely smiling, looking at the panorama, so huge, full of things that felt strange and familiar, close and far away. Thomas came up to him by taking it from his shoulder, only his hand was burning in contact with the child. This time he turned to see him raising his face, it was strange not being the tallest in the room, he had to take credit for having been surrounded by dwarfs the last years. The look was more calm, but with that something, that something he knew was to provoke him. Then he pointed to the music system as an obvious step in the equation.

— The first thing you do is put music, go to the cellar, take out some mixtape and play it, sometimes customers arrive before this is even clean, so you come here — he said taking the minor docile to follow his way, Per replied just as docile as the hand that guided him to the cellar underground of the local —Here, look— said lighting the lights in the basement — the mixtapes are here, all commercial music, so do not expect something very of your style, by the way, you should clean this place occasionally, so that things don’t get ruined with mold, ah! , and if something is not outside, it is not inside, and if it is not outside, but it is inside, it is already reserved.

— I thought the cellar was in the corridor behind the counter

— No, that leads to three rooms, my office, the bathroom, and kitchen, also makes coffee, you know how to make coffee?

Questioned at the lost gaze of Per, who nodded mechanically for a positive response.

— I can make coffee.

He assured with the same curious, hot energy that surrounded him at the time.

— Great, you can drink coffee too.

— I don’t like coffee.

The statement did not leave indifferent the chestnut that looked at him surprised — I thought you would like, I made coffee that morning.

He remembered in a thread of voice, but Per only shrugged with his head, his face was a little red, especially his nose that looked like Rodolfo’s before the basement. Thomas thought that Per could brighten the room with blood glitter, but the blonde’s words sounded neither ashamed nor shy.

—Yes, you did, and I drank it, but it was because you did it, and I was a little embarrassed to turn it down, but I prefer tea.

The statement came to him as a low blow, as if the penalty that ever charge Per, now will carry it himself, but he did not say anything about it, just continued the conversation— I understand, we can get tea, there are also cookies and that, if you want to eat.

He finished, in a tense tone of voice. For his part, I look at the mixtapes curious, they were stacked in a very disorganized way, did not carry anything in particular that will indicate its content, only a piece of tape with a number written on it. His neglected appearance did not leave anything in particular unattractive for his demanding look, but his fingers were not satisfied with the first option. It was a mode of self-demand, quickly accommodated the tapes, leaving the “ugly” numbers below and those that pleased him above. He looked at Quorthon curious and took him tape “22”. “22” was a good number, he got up with his characteristic theatricality, with long steps towards the sound player, although the moments were short. He could swear as they were long to join with the drama of his action, with his heavy breathing. The act was a delight under the eyes of Thomas who had fun in front of the blonde’s melodramatic suffering, it was always like that, everything should make bigger, more dramatic, more intense than it really was. Per enjoyed the emotional burden of bringing the simplest things to epic ground, Quorthon enjoyed his self-imposed punishment, with his sharp body heavy as a dagger, a sword that cracked with his heavy breaths. It was curious to see from above, so close up, his skeletal hand deposit he tucks into the machine, his fingers seemed to tremble when he gave play. The seconds when the music refused to come out looked like a sip of cold water, the blonde’s tense body only satisfied to hear Paul Stanley’s familiar voice in a howl. He let loose a smile of satisfaction, knowing that “22” was good. He leapt back into the room with a conspicuous expression of satisfaction that only seemed as surreal as the boy himself.

Thomas came back again, absorbing the natural fire of the fragile body. He can’t help but notice Per was already preparing to clean up by putting on a mouth guard he had been keeping in his pocket and black latex gloves. Took a breath before talking about the elephant in the room — Don’t you mind the music?

Per shook his head, taking the old broom — I love “Kiss”

 

He assured, starting with his work. Again, Thomas was not content to look at him as a look of disbelief, how did he dare to be so decent today? — Do you dress like a good boy? , Are you well-behaved? — began to list as if he was talking about atrocities committed by Yngve, who remained indifferent to his claims — and now you like “Kiss”! 

— I always liked  “Kiss”

The question was so genuine that it seemed like a blow, Thomas could only answer bitterly — Yes! If I’ve seen “Kiss”, but why of all things in the world do you have to like it?

— Mnnn, well, they are great, I like their music, the aesthetics that they have, I think they mix very well the theatrical concept of shock rock, as if Arthur Brown had stumbled on the comics of “HORROR” or I don’t know, You have ever seen the “Tales from the crypt” or “Creep show”? Something like that, but it’s a baby, rock shock and Creepshow have an ugly baby, but the ugly baby is influenced by “David Bowie” and “New York Dolls” and thinks that if he puts makeup on he can look pretty.

The words were so absurd at once passionate that Thomas could hardly keep up with Per’s satire, why had he made him talk? — An ugly baby listening to David Bowie? — Why would he question the fundamentals of proper aesthetics to a man who smells like an open grave? 

— ¡Yes! , the baby has to see Bowie dressed as “Ziggy Stardust” but listen to “Alice Cooper” and “Dead Boys,” then he finds his way, and he makes fake blood sex songs!

The emotion on the face of the minor could not be disguised with his hair, but his nervousness was shown in the frantic way of cleaning the floor.

— You talk like you know about sex 

Thomas declared snarkily, he knew he had to find a way to fuck him, find his weak spine.

— I know about sex.

What a blow to the ego was for Thomas, the weight of shame was unbearable, a weight in the stomach that stretched. He felt it from his chest to the rest of his body, as if his blood had become gasoline and Per’s words needed the spark to immolate him. Now he had to admit the biggest sore throat: he was fucked up by that statement.

— Since when have you been?

— Mnnn — Came out of Per’s mouth, as if he was really doing calculations, should he count from the penetration or the foreplay counted? , what difference was there between fingers and a cock if another guy had already corrupted his body? , he really debated it with the ground full of dust, but finally come to a conclusion — summer of 89.

— You didn’t know about sex when I met you.

— It’s four years, people change at that time, it’s a pretty long period — he murmured, letting out another breath, bringing his hand closer, scratching his nose on the mouthpiece — In these four years things have happened, you know: Metallica continues to decline after Cliff’s death, people are terrified by the stupid clown movie that, and Kiss released Hot in the Shade…

— And you joined “Mayhem”.

He of Quorthon muttered briefly, the atmosphere, his mind on fire. Per left the broom aside, again, just his rhythmic breath that merged with the music.

— Yes, I did, but I had the job secured for five or six years so it doesn’t count as much — He fixed his eyes on Thomas, who looked at him indicator, obviously waiting for a response — met Øystein online, on forums, and we connected fast, It would have been weird for him to rejected me as his singer knowing our history.

— I see who you learned sex from.

Again, I provoked him, trying to get out of his mind, to pass the burning wound in the lower part of his throat. He hated it when Per laughed to his credit, with slightly blushed cheeks.

— Yeah, amazing sex with blood and “Kiss” in the background.

Thomas refused to look up and down, his head hot, stroking the glass of the counter, trying to find the cold, icy peace of his shop. He was really trying to adapt to his feeling of strangeness — You can’t tell me that, dressed like that.

— Why? You don’t like it? , yesterday I told my dad about getting a job, and he got very amused, then advised me to wear something more quiet, so here we are, Very formal?

— No, it’s perfect, you let your dad choose your clothes?

— My dad has had many more jobs than me, you know what you’re talking about, right? Besides, he wouldn’t recommend wearing a leather thong.

He pointed to Per shrugging his shoulders, with the casual voice so that the comment would resonate more in the brown-haired mind, with the sour countenance.

— You looked fantastic in the leather thong, what do you have to say about your undead aesthetic? 

Per se giro excited before the question, a “Do you really want to know?”, they reflected on his whole body, as if he was popping. They knew well heaven and hell when I had waited for that moment.

— Not alive — clarified Per quickly giving a stern look at Quorthon, a threat that he would not again be confused between the implications of an unliving and an undead — About my appearance, there is not much to say, it was just a way of externalizing my inner self, At first I spent much more time on the dead-looking. Mixed colors to make more accurate appearance, with blood and fluids coming out of my body. My mom had no idea why her makeup disappeared and ended up blaming my sister — Per dropped a laugh at that memory, with an air of nostalgia so strange for a man so young, this back to the toilet to take out the rag and resume her work — I think I got her in trouble for that. I was ashamed to tell her that it was because of me that her lipsticks and eye-shadows disappeared — he said with her voice getting lower and lower, as if she would try to speak, as if he had hands pressing on her lungs — my mother is quite vain, does not play with the beauty. She was doing exercise at that time, Pilates of Jane Fonda, you know Jane Fonda? With your tight tights, yes? Well, I guess that’s the principle of aesthetics. 

The last sentence came out as a slight whisper, it was obvious that it really was a confession, though quite obvious, equally shocking. His breath was as heavy as his confessions, landing the truth among the slight noises before his lips. The single image of the young blond man entering his mother’s room to steal cosmetics as part of a ritual with which he could complete his mortuary phase. He was as adorable as disturbing, though his mind also went in variants, how would Per look at the Jane Fonda in a Pilates leotard? , how does a female Pilates suit relate to the inertia of death? He was in hell, he needed air.

— Use that aesthetic mainly in “Morbid”, but the makeup was not good enough, I do not know much about special effects and all that — assured in a swing between the bathroom and the main room as a talking pendulum — then I chose the black-and-white photos, you know, for the sake of aesthetics, taste!

— You talk a lot about aesthetics.

— Of course, aesthetics is the basis of society, the world is surrounded by “beauty”, the concept of beauty under the expectant eye, but it is true that there will be a desirable standard, so everything is governed, a natural instinct of good taste.

Thomas could only warm his head to the words of Per, Had he really planned it so much? , Did your ripped pants have a carnal aesthetic function, like the little Pilates leotards? 

— You must be fucking with me, can’t you have thought all that…

— They are basic concepts — he clarified Per starting to feel irritated — every artist is based on the aesthetics and its basic foundations, even if it is instinctively! , if not could not be called artist, must look at beauty in its own light and perspective, not to fall before the aesthetic judgment, knowing how to overcome over, you know. Marx called it the sexual capital to understand the need for proposed beauty.

— Can’t be, where did you get all that?

— Emmanuel Kant.

— Have you read Kant?

— Yes, I read Kant, Hans Hauss, John Ruskin, and Nietzsche unfortunately, you think I can’t read and have complex thoughts?

The issue filled the air like the lemon-scented cleaner that Per used to dust off the shelves. The connected eyes simply stood in a tortuous struggle. Thomas did not know what to say, he never saw the young man in that light, as a complex being, under the specific academic light of which the blonde seemed to lack completely. The insight to formulate such complex ideas from the tiny clothes of Jane Fonda. And now he did not know that he was burning, his mind, his shop, or the face of the minor, who, knowing his psychotic nature, could fill the whole place with real fire. Watch the thin lips move, in words that seemed to screams, bursts of methane from their low tone.

— You… you really think I can’t read!

— No, I just didn’t think you’d be interested in that, you, well, you run around with your face painted white and send slaughtered animals to people.

Per shook his head slowly, not taking off his steady eyes from the tall body that seemed to tremble. Next to an even louder breath, he hit the wall with his palm open — no! You can’t see more than the obvious, right? — slowly approached Thomas by lowering his mouth cap to his chin. This one looked at him with open eyes, sure that he was going to jump to his throat — Of course, it is very easy for you to leave the Viking pose as soon as you come out of the recording studio or in the concert, you really do not feel it.

— Sorry about that, man!

He defended himself awkwardly, without seeing a change in the other’s firm stance.

— You don’t feel it…, because you’re disappointing, my father may have picked me clothes today, but he hasn’t chosen either my stock or my career as yours…- Quorthon looked at the fire in his eyes, his chest rising and falling, like a bomb about to explode. The black latex-covered hand was directly imposing itself on Thomas’s chin, pressing it in his fingers which presses — I really believe in this, outside and inside the scene, because you don’t act what you live, nor what you transmit, the artist will never be able to leave his work that lives parasitizing his dreams. I am dead regardless of my condition or place.

— Why are you dead? 

He dared to question, tiptoeing away from Per’s stupid strong grip, How could someone so thin possess such strength with that tiny ass?. His existence was not really adapted to logic, so he must have understood that it was time to adapt to the answers of the minor.

— Why Jane Fonda in a tight leotard? , it’s sexy, death is sexy, seductive, no?…

Yngve muttered closer and closer to him, dominant, furious, but without a shred of doubt or respect for Quorthon. The last one knew it was his fault, he had opened the doors of the festive paradise of his tent to blasphemy made man. It didn’t matter if Per looked like a church boy today, he was born with the mark of death, he couldn’t control him. Because of his fault the sky had burned, now he could only assimilate it, raised his hands up to the bony hip of Per, with intentions to hollow them out. Unfortunately, they were working, that was noticed because the door opened ringing the doorbell. 

Per instinctively turned and walked towards the customer with a wide smile, moving away as fast as he came to now stalk the customer, looking over his neck. Thomas just walked to his office without saying much, listening to the voices getting weak in the distance with a “New Administration” by Per. He had definitely set fire to heaven, now he could only deal with it.

[diediegamchicothdie]

Round and Round

[Pelle and Quorthon]

I hate you so much that i need to fuck you.

Fanfic based in glam/hair metal songs.

Also available in AO3!

He thought the quiet days of spring in March '91 were eternal, with their aura of tranquility consumed in a rampaging, passionate romance, those that lift you up and shake you from within, leaving a body with a pleasant pain that eventually was perfect. He seemed to have all the cards in his favor, for the daytime was short enough to work on his music and the long nights to celebrate his overwhelming success, Great celebrations to his ego where he loved to fill his blood with alcohol leaving finally rest his brain off for a few moments; in the end he had achieved his goal: Bathory was totally and exclusively his own, that truth made him writhe of happiness. The total creative control of his beloved band was a delicious delight. Power made him feel so fulfilled, a feeling that not everyone understood, much less understands, his earthly orgasm. He had everything he ever wanted, so his '83 child self had been struggling, something of his own, own, possessing: a successful band, enough money to support his whims, lovers of all kinds and friends who will cover his back, a milestone, an enviable life, at the very least desirable, he had nothing to complain about, by 91 he had achieved it, at his mere 25 years he could safely say that his life was good, simple for a metal star, respectable and imposing, where his reputation preceded him, his name carried a great weight, his words were constantly asked for good advice, he could make himself felt without attacking, because indifference was a powerful weapon and he was not a troublesome type nor much less, his band was his business, his life and to some extent his lover, he preferred to keep it quiet, simple, on the sidelines, not needed a great demonstration to remain a legend.

It was Quorthon, leader of Bathory, a project both dark and proud of its Nordic roots, drinking from the use and custom of the Scandinavian peoples, their worldview, acting, heritage, combining with tradition, but especially the Viking roots. His historical heritage gave him a warm embrace on the back that only grew when he spoke of the strength of the Nordic blood. Always running in circles about how they were forced to abandon their origin and bow down before an alien God, for he could not help but run in circles about the same thing. Finding a thousand different ways to talk about the same thing, mutating in different forms, that was its essence, that was all its work, its soul crushed in the feeling of fervent nationalism before its ancestors and traditions. Thomas Börje Forsberg as his own person, had his own cross to bear, he could not deny it, was a nerd, not of those who know about numbers and long algebraic operations; hardly had finished the institute by pressure from his father. He was a history nerd, especially the history situated in the later epoch of the Germanic Iron Age understood in modernity between the years 793 to 1100 and clearly its corresponding mythology. With this fact already covered, it was obvious to infer that he could spend hours talking about every historical event. The emotion that he displayed in his body every time he was able to vomit historical labia about life in ancient Scandinavia. No one would fully understand how he ecstatically explained the opera of the Valkyries of Wagner to anyone who would listen, but, being totally forced to be honest again before himself: nobody wanted to talk about things that the crowd (including their own fans) didn’t really care that much. Although that truth was a kind of stab, he could live with it, he could still talk to the paper, the pen and his collection of books by Peter Foote and David M. Wilson. He knew at one point that loneliness was a good friend, something transient but very bearable. For the sake of his body and soul, Thomas, he would not bother to beg anyone to listen. He had to admit that his pride was his greatest flaw, but he wasn’t so lethal or unpleasant in his own eyes he deserved to be proud, he was a young man, talented, handsome and a musical genius, he had something to brag about, he didn’t feel ashamed of himself, nor was he hiding behind false identities. That’s why he knew, it’s more, he didn’t even know. He buried under his skin the memory made presence as if it were a spectral entity, giving honor to his pale skin, where his bluish veins stand out like thin ropes that tied his slim body in a natural bondage. All this meant the presence of that raven which brings omens, of death, as he liked to call himself, who had only come to shit in his shop, at work. He was waiting for it, in his mind had imagined this day with so much insistence, in the deepest part he recognized the moment of their reunion because what goes around, goes around, even more strongly.

In his silent retaliation he bit the cigarette between his lips, reaching his mouth of the unpleasant rest of tobacco swallowing large pieces of tobacco and more shit, swallowing scraping his throat, in any other case did not give importance to his enemies, because no matter how much he hated that concept. He had to admit that it was a real enmity between bands or members of the same band who just ended badly, preferred not to pay attention to those childish fights that so burdened him, but this case was totally particular out of any logical understanding as a chloroform dream. Didn’t want to go around in circles again, but in the underground metal industry it’s easy to get yourself a lot of enemies. Fucking crazies scumbags, fed by the bastard who called himself death when it was just a pathetic attempt of a man who could not even fill his own clothes. There it was, the myth, the figure, the legend full of shit of Per Yngve Ohlin. He was so stupid and brazen, without a shred of shame in spite of his past, ignoring his guilt that he should carry as a sad stain of shame. Certainly not, because knowing his show of crap in mayhem knew very well that he should not have the slightest respect for himself or others, and especially before him. Finally, the laser gaze that followed him through the shop took effect and his much-acclaimed wish was fulfilled. Their eyes connected, the blue of their irises clattering, eating each other in a silent, anxious dance, that they both thought they could kill themselves by just looking at each other. He round and round again, felt no need to explain it again, preferred to ignore it before all in a game of power and humiliation. He preferred to think that he never met him, that he never touched him, that neither his words nor their bodies ever coincided, but before the fullness of being alone in front of the records, t-shirts and other merchandise of varied genres of metal with the music of "RATT" in the background. Furthermore, he found no reason to keep silent, because he was a rather relaxed guy, but he had his limits and the mere presence of Per already crossed all his lines, but he also liked crossing lines.

— What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t good enough for the store of a mediocre and average rock star in the city full of aspirational posers like Stockholm.

He let go amused, biting his tongue with the last sentence. To his surprise, the young ghost before him remained indifferent. His feet moved loudly, walking a couple of steps around the tent. "As if he were taking over my space," thought Thomas, striking the soft brain muscle inside his skull. So early in the morning, just like last time, the brat from Västerhaninge became a damn nuisance. He could see him, thinner, with worse posture and a face of a finished man, a pathetic portrait for someone so young, but he had asked for it, that was what bothered him the most.

— You are in my shop, and you are not able to answer — he muttered even more annoyed. Everything about him irritated him, his bad posture and only repulsive smell that revealed his poor hygiene, and the body he had once found fascinating, so worn out, turned to see it, dismayed. - What do you want?

— Today I come in work of client. Are you so rude with your clients always?

The question fell like ice. He refused, lowering his head. It was almost funny, a bad joke, to see that arrogant brat, who had provoked him, shaken him as if he had horns and was pushing him like a juvenile goat. Sigh, this time, turned his gaze to him holding it, watching as he took a pair of discs from various sections, strutting as if he knew that place from memory and then approaching the counter.

—You really don’t come to tease me?

—If I wanted to do it, I would have pissed in the window outside while you were lost writing your stupid lyrics.

He could only remain silent. He looked at the long fingers of the man in front of him, battered, scarred and malnourished to the point of absurdity, he might be mean and say they were like chopsticks, but being more honest with himself, they seemed to be rose stalks with broken thorns. Surely in that same state was his whole body, possible scars that did not care to know at the time, that impact was like bitter bile in his mouth, How could your inner circle or fans say they loved or admired you when they enjoyed watching what you were doing to your body? He felt sorry for the dead, and as his eyes had no hope, he made him reconsider his hatred, but not enough to prevent him from being a bastard like the other.

—Cinderella, excellent choice, "long cold winter," is one of my favorite records until you learn some music, huh?

The soft laughter came out as a declaration of victory on his part, a way of saying "I have won," but Per did not seem angry at his provocation, his eyes revealed their truth, he really looked dead, his pale blue orbs were tired decorated with dark and yellowish spots around him, had he passed through a spiritual death? He did not have the will to argue.

—It’s for my sister — he muttered in a low voice, his voice was different, as if hid breath possessed a cold air, totally icy, you could tell that she didn’t want to talk anymore - she has always liked this kind of thing.

—Then she has an incredible taste -—pity that this was her territory, the territory of Quorthon who only lived for his own hedonism, by consequence only his will would be fulfilled — I did not know you had brothers.

— We didn’t talk so much that you would know — I explain quickly a little exasperated, but equally defeated — I don’t like to bring my family together with this, I guess it’s a bit embarrassing for them, you know all on the scene are a bunch of idiots and fakes, started with jokes about my mother, I don’t want them to go after my brothers.

The understanding of those words made him make a grimace on his face; it was not entirely a smile. A gesture that made him feel, not so smug, something inside his confused consciousness incited him to act out of himself. If it was anyone else, he would have told him to fuck off, laugh in his face and spit if he could, but he wasn’t just anybody. He took a breath, moved a few centimeters away from the counter, then made a head-shake as a sign to go next to him behind the cash register. Per looked at him somewhat puzzled, he also understood the behavior of the old man, who shared his own disgust. He knew full well that he might be walking into the mouth of the wolf, but he was not a man of common sense, a living being who had no appreciation for himself. He decided to obey like a dog, recognizing his old master. This time he was sitting next to them, on top of a wooden box full of imports covered with a Swedish flag.

—You’re a good brother...

He acknowledged with a conciliatory tone of voice that led Per into a bitter, febrile dream which he chose to ignore.

—I’m not.

He quickly clarified, without wanting to give rise to any confusion.

— You seem to be — he pointed back turning to see him, took his can of Pepsi and gave him a sip swallowing the liquid to clean his mouth as to give himself strength before coming back to speak, even without knowing how to handle the situation with all his abilities — I followed you — Admitted removed from the penalty and then justify himself — although it is impossible not to do so with his scandal, you had been achieving in Norway why have you returned?

The question remained in the air, like a riddle, a doubt that even though the minor wanted to answer it, he did not know how to approach it.

— Because I’m not a good brother.

He concluded in a blunt manner, a conclusion that sounded so simple, but so biting at the same time, a phrase that was forced to drink a long sip of that sweet oil-colored liquid that he hated so much "but at least it’s not coca-cola" Per consoled himself by swallowing as if his life depended on it, his first food, he denied by leaning his face against his hand.

— Is that all of it?

Genuine curiosity filled the tense air, as if it were a fishbowl flooded with the feeling gathered by the pair of Swedes who could barely speak without jumping to their jugulars, Per shrugged back in response, as if that covered any doubt.

— If you think I failed in Norway, that the time I spent there was a futile struggle, totally sterile and did not get anywhere... You’re right, I’ve been wasted four years, that’s all.

— I wouldn’t say it’s a failure, at all, those idiots who find taste in whatever they’re doing, they adore you.

— I don’t want that, I don’t want to be worshiped by idiots.

He said, looking at the ground. Thomas on his side, he bites the inside of his cheek, playing with his fingers in the dressing room, his dominant posture: straight back, but relaxed against the finely detailed black wood, with his long legs covered with latex that melted into his flesh, with her elegant appendages crossed one in front of the other, with sunglasses over her totally smooth and shiny light brown hair. A well-polished and planned image contrasted too much with the defeat of the man who was once called the sad Norwegian black metal scene.

— How long do you plan to stay?

A faint sound of doubt escaped down the throat of the minor who didn’t know how to respond to that, his skinny hands traveled to his blonde hair, not very well cared for, he was greasy and battered by the ravages of his act, Yet I play quite amusing with the golden fibers between his fingers. For a few moments the repetitive movement took him to a kind of trance so peaceful, the look lost, I could not see it.

— I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it enough, maybe forever? , not in Stockholm, I don’t like Stockholm, this city makes me feel sick, like, I don’t know, I feel dirty, like when Øystein put on Tangerine Dream in the morning.

— Tangerine Dream?

Murmured somewhat incredulous at that revelation, never thought that someone of the nature of "Euronymous" will enjoy a band with such a corny name, but much less imagine that Per will reveal it so easily, it was obvious that the boy had come back stabbed, with the bleeding wound opening to let go of everything he had ever kept exclusively for himself, with his cold gaze rising before him, that silent statement "you know me from the beginning" clear, he did, knew his disgust, but not the sensitivity of his soul.

— It’s, um, you know, an electronic project, I hate electronics — he hesitated in his speech, the look of Quorthon on his pale face that showed his clear discomfort when talking about that music, always making him cross lines — It’s like, you know, movie soundtrack and stuff like that, it makes me feel like I can play colors, he used to put the "Wavelength" soundtrack in the morning, I hated it, from "Alien Voices" to "Mojave End Title Reprise", I would also insist on seeing those silly movies with philosophical message and undecipherable background, I do not understand them prefer the blood, he liked "Blue Velvet" would insist on seeing that tape again and again, it hurts my eyes, And the soundtrack? , It’s a mess!

He muttered with his eyes, a pair of wells sunk in his white skin, what sand, Thomas understood that he had not before death, but a ghost, but what goes back, and much stronger.

— You hate it so much that you seem to know every detail.

At that moment that face inexpressible released a spark of life, understanding the severity of that stab, but does not back away, at all, nodded his head higher — to hate something must know it, I hate Tangerine Dream, Pink Floyd, the stupid filmography of David Lynch and all the synthesizer crap, makes me feel dizzy.

— You always hated that they had power and control over you.

He pointed out quite jokingly of his words, again adopting an attitude of shit, but the blond this time was not content to spit at his feet. The boots of the elder were filled with liquid saliva without a drop of thickness in a gleaming yellowish shade, coming out of the cracked lips of the younger one, who, annoyed, got up to go out, not wanting to give more or to be more precise, to give him further explanations.

—You’re running again?

Quorthon questioned, now defensive to Per wishing to kill him on the spot, but not wanting the other to leave, not like that, not so fast. Per, he had no more desire to talk. Thomas' conscience was beating in his stomach to his brain, it was his fault, he knew it, he was so proud to see him open up, as if he were still that nervous kid who had appeared that night at "Heavy Sound Shop" just four years ago, and he had just closed it again, like an idiot.

— I don’t hate the power over me, if you think I do it you don’t know it, you know well what you did, you don’t know me, right? , no, not at all, but you always open your mouth and fuck everything up, you couldn’t treat me like a customer — mumbled between teeth, really upset, but Thomas was delighted, because he saw something more than death in his eyes, because he preferred it furious, irritated as a demon rather than cold as a dead — No, you can never be real like all the fucking fake ones that you protect.

— What did I do? What did I do? Tell me, if it was you who came to me with all those sweet words and then sent me to hell like a bastard, am I the bad guy here? — asked indignantly, finally the weight of the past falling like thousands of needles on their thin pieces of metal that were buried under the muscles, which had so much avoided had finally returned, so it goes back and much stronger — I really thought you had an interest in me, not what I could give you.

The revelation startled the blond man, who struck his hand hard against the wood and made it tremble. Quorthon’s look was up to his tense face, constricted in a mere expression of frustration, red with anger, bright as a Christmas light bulb. After all the exchange, his comings and goings, running around in circles had finally reached him, like a burst of salty water that went into his lungs, choking on his own words, choking on fellow countrymen, until he could finally vomit on him, the poisonous words accompanied by splashes of saliva on his face.

— ¡You think what I did that night was to get something out of you! You’re a fucking selfish pig! — Per’s hands trembled with pure rage produced by the pure hatred generated by that revelation which knew him as pure poison — You think I let myself emasculate because I thought I would have something of you!

The claims were spilling out into the room that now seemed to be airless, filled only with the endless insults of the younger man, that desperate call to Thomas’s brain who could barely process what was happening. He bit his lip, feeling the shame that it concealed in his gut, going from stomach to esophagus, sticking himself into his throat, had really crossed its limits, but how would he knows if his word had been law, if he had never heard the version of the blond that now crumbled and rebuilt which phoenix before his eyes.

— I, I never expected anything material from you, I was just so happy to meet you that my fanaticism clouded my vision, but you are disappointing —accepted before the truth of phrases, as if you tore apart from the esophagus —You are always disappointing! A mediocre and average rock star, a daddy’s boy who doesn’t know how to earn things for himself, because of you I had to go, you threw me into misfortune, if you had signed "Morbid" I would not have had to settle for the hell that is Norway!

The sordid accusations were no longer needles, they were daggers that only tore his conscience, the coldest eyes of the thinnest man, his weak figure was soaring. Per, with the rage of a broken man, spat again, but this time falling his face of Thomas, who closed his eyes, clenched both his fists and teeth. Now, Per was ready to fight, he was looking forward to it, he had been looking for it for so long, he fantasized about this moment. He had not come as this one had wished, when he was on the top and all recognized his name, he would return for Quorthon, take him by the horns and drag his head against the ground, make him kiss his feet and put him in his place, at the mercy of true darkness. Now, under the shadow of his failure, he did not care about his wet fantasies of revenge, the eyes of Quorthon on him excited him, taking him to the primitive state of the brain where only the response of fight or flight remained, and he was already tired of running away, his lips clenched with a frown, but the older one just walked away turning around, looking for a tissue to wipe his face, again disappointing.

— I’m not going to do this, have you even looked at yourself? — He asks laughing at the confusion of Per before his reproach, putting things to a strange level, he did not need as many words as the smallest to get hurt — you look like a corpse, do you have at least a job with which to solve your bones?

Per slowly denied in a burst of confusion before the wave of information without understanding why Quorthon, the doubt before his acting was so great that it seemed a shadow like Nosferatu —No, I have nothing for the moment, I thought to stay for Easter, but now it’s final, I’ll find something to do... What do you care?

— Do you have any additional studies? Any after-school technician?

Questioned shocked by the new negative of the minor who only shrugged his shoulders, not knowing very well what to answer, people did not use to question how well read he was, the scene was not interested in these things, just assume a level of study. Usually they said he was smart, personally preferred to say that he only had personality, at that moment he again took a docile act leaving his defensive posture, Per adopted the curious look of Quorthon.

—What do you get?

—How did you plan to buy the albums?

Per himself shrugged again, like a kind of body tic, followed by another and another, blinking repeatedly as fluttering butterflies and then bit his tongue a little bit playfully, he was not going to hurt — I have some money saved, Well, just right, I wanted to give them something nice as an apology, and well, I asked a friend to come see the prices and adjust that…

He muttered shyly. Thomas nodded feeling strange, a mixture of sorrow and tenderness, sometimes he forgot the nature of the kid, certainly was very hard on him, he knew it. In his defense, there was something to push him and see his reaction that attracted him, his anger was somewhat intoxicating, a kind of almost addictive pleasure to watch him rage, but now his face seems more innocent, naive, like the first time he met. His pale sad eyes, full of doubts, so tender that he could not help the laughter that came out of his lips as much as he tried, was not malicious, just a natural reaction to seeing him in that way.

— Per, how about you come work here? I’m busy with the band and I need someone who knows music and can handle all this, do you think you can handle it?

The question remained in the air for quite a while, Per looked down at the floor and gently slammed against the counter as he hit the floor with his dirty shoes in some sort of strange dance, would you?, He didn’t know. When Øystein spoke of Helvète he was not excited, not at all, he could not look like the right hand of the Norwegian, no more, he did not look at himself cleaning shelves and being in endless talks about the scene, he was tired, so tired. Quorthon’s shop was not like inner circle, at all, it was a place for posers and beginners in the metal world, very relaxed, no one would recognize it, what most wanted, to disappear into the metal world as a kind of urban legend. If he was mistaken for the false ones, other idiots would simply forget him, could even exclude him and remove him as a dirty traitor, that thought was a relief, then decided took the records, He looked up at the man with brown hair who was still restless waiting for his answer.

—So? What do you say, Per, are you in?

— I suppose if you’re going bald from stress, if I were you, I’d check those entries — he pointed shamelessly while holding the albums to his chest as if trying to melt plastic with his body, Thomas’s face filled with blood so quickly that he could not control it by touching his hair at such a sign, but he could not respond, for Per was already ready — When do I start?

— Tomorrow, I want you here at 9 o'clock, the working day is regular, you will be given all the benefits of the law along with the minimum wage, do you agree?

Asked ironically, because I knew that the other had nothing else, not that jobs fell from heaven, more for someone like Per. For whom he nodded backing up with albums even against his body as if they were to be snatched at some point, Per whose thin lips only a noise like a "Tomorrow see you" left his body as a last statement before leaving the place as ghostly as he entered. Only then did Thomas understand that he was still a cheeky, in a dream that only alarms that sounded like rumblings could wake him up, his body jumped even confused by what had just happened, quickly turned off the alarms and then denied with his head that he was staying a little in the clouds. He didn’t even know what he had done, he wasn’t even going to question the reason for his decision, but whatever it was, he had to prove it now. It was time, he had to retry the analgesic effect of joining his body with the psychotic dead man, it was all, he had no more comfort, only "RATT" at full volume through the speakers in the store understood their feelings.

[diediegamchicothdie]

Round and Round

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Se odian tanto que terminan cogiendo, historia basada en canciones de glam/hair metal.

1/?

También disponible en AO3!

Pensaba que los días tranquilos de la primavera de marzo del 91 eran eternos, con su aura de tranquilidad que se consumía en un romance desbocado, apasionado, de esos que te levantan y sacuden desde el interior, dejando un el cuerpo con un dolor placentero que con el tiempo era perfecto. Parecía tener todas las cartas a su favor, pues, el momento diurno era lo suficientemente corto para trabajar en su música y las noches largas para festejar su abrumante éxito, grandes celebraciones a su ego donde le encantaba llenar su sangre de alcohol dejando finalmente descansar a su cerebro apagado por unos momentos; al final había logrado su objetivo: Bathory era total y exclusivamente suyo, esa verdad lo hacía retorcerse de felicidad. El total control creativo de su amada banda era un delicioso deleite. El poder lo hacía sentir tan realizado, una sensación que no todos entendían, mucho menos comprende, su orgasmo terrenal. Tenía todo lo que alguna vez había deseado, por lo que su yo infantil del 83’ había estado luchando, algo suyo, propio, poseedor de: una banda exitosa, suficiente dinero para poder sustentar sus caprichos, amantes de todo tipo y amigos quienes cubrirán su espalda, todo un hito, una vida envidiable, por lo mínimo deseable, no tenía de que quejarse, para el 91 lo había logrado, a sus escasos 25 años podría afirmar con toda seguridad que su vida era buena, simple para una estrella de metal, respetable e imponente, donde su reputación le precedía, su nombre llevaba un gran peso, sus palabras eran solicitadas constantemente en busca de un buen consejo, podía hacerse sentir sin atacar, pues la indiferencia era una arma poderosa y él no era un tipo conflictivo ni mucho menos, su banda era su negocio, su vida y hasta cierto punto su amante, prefería mantenerlo tranquilo, simple, al margen, no necesitaba un gran postureo para seguir siendo una leyenda.

Era Quorthon, líder de Bathory, un proyecto tanto oscuro como orgulloso de sus raíces nórdicas, bebiendo desde el uso y costumbre de los pueblos escandinavos, su cosmovisión, el actuar, la herencia, que combina junto a la tradición, pero especialmente la raíz vikinga. Su herencia histórica le brindaba un cálido abrazo en la espalda que solo crecía cuando hablaba de la fuerza de la sangre nórdica. Siempre corriendo en círculos acerca de cómo los obligaban a abandonar su origen y doblegarse ante un Dios ajeno, pues no podía evitar correr en círculos acerca de lo mismo. Encontrando mil maneras diferentes de hablar de lo mismo, mutando en distintas formas, esa era su esencia, ese era todo su trabajo, su alma aplastada en el sentimiento del nacionalismo ferviente ante sus ancestros y tradiciones. Thomas Börje Forsberg como su propia persona, tenía su propia cruz que cargar, no lo podía negar, era un nerd, no de esos que saben de números y de largas operaciones algebraicas; a duras penas había terminado el instituto por presión de su padre. Era un nerd de la historia, especialmente la historia situada en la época posterior de la edad de hierro germánica comprendida en la modernidad entre los años 793 al 1100 y claramente su mitología correspondiente. Con este hecho ya cubierto era obvio inferir que él podría pasar horas hablando de cada suceso histórico. La emoción que desplegaba en su cuerpo cada vez que era capaz de poder vomitar labia histórica acerca de la vida en la antigua Escandinavia. Nadie entendería por completo como se extasiaba explicando a detalle la ópera de las Valkyrias de Wagner a quien quisiera escuchar, pero, viéndose totalmente obligado a ser honesto ante nuevamente, sí mismo: nadie lo quería hablar sobre cosas que a la multitud (incluyendo sus propios fans) realmente no les importaban tanto. Aunque esa verdad era una especie de puñalada, podría vivir con ese hecho, podría seguir hablando con el papel, la pluma y su colección de libros de Peter Foote y David M. Wilson. Sabía en cierto punto que la soledad era una buena amiga, algo pasajera, pero muy llevadera. Por el bien de su cuerpo y alma, Thomas, no se molestaría en suplicar a nadie para que lo escuchara. Debía admitir que su orgullo era su mayor defecto, pero no era uno tan letal o desagradable ante sus propios ojos merecía ser orgulloso, era un hombre joven, talentoso, guapo y un genio musicalmente hablando, tenía de donde presumir, no se avergonzaba de sí mismo, ni se escondía tras falsas identidades. Por eso supo, es más, ni siquiera lo supo. Se le enterró debajo de la piel el recuerdo hecho presencia como si fuera un ente espectral, dando honor a su piel pálida, donde sus venas azuladas resaltan como finas cuerdas que amarraban su delgado cuerpo en un bondage natural. Todo eso significaba la presencia de aquel cuervo de mal Agüero, de la muerte, como le gustaba llamarse así mismo, que solo había llegado a cagarse en su tienda, en su trabajo. Lo estaba esperando, en su mente había imaginado este día con tanta insistencia, en lo más profundo reconocía el momento de su reencuentro porque lo que se va viene aún con más fuerza.

En su silenciosa represalia mordió fuertemente el cigarrillo entre sus labios, llegando su boca del resto desagradable de tabaco tragando los grandes trozos de tabaco y más mierda, tragando raspando su garganta, en cualquier otro caso no le daba importancia a sus enemigos, porque por más que odiara ese concepto. Debía admitir que era algo real la enemistad entre bandas o integrantes de la misma banda quienes simplemente terminaba mal, prefería no hacer caso a esas peleas infantiles que tanto le agobiaba, pero este caso era totalmente particular fuera de cualquier compresión lógica como un sueño de cloroformo. No quería volver a correr en círculos, pero en la industria del metal underground es muy fácil llenarse de enemigos. Jodidos locos, alimentados por el cabrón que se hacía llamar la muerte cuando solo era un patético intento de hombre que ni siquiera podía llenar su propia ropa. Ahí estaba, el mito, la figura, la leyenda llena de mierda de Per Yngve Ohlin.  Se encontraba, tan idiota y descarado, sin pizca de vergüenza a pesar de su pasado, ignorando su culpa que debería cargar como una triste mancha de vergüenza. Seguro no lo hacía, porque conociendo su espectáculo de porquería en mayhem sabía muy bien que no debería poseer el mínimo respeto por sí mismo ni por los demás y especialmente ante él. Finalmente, la mirada láser que lo seguía a través de la tienda surtió efecto y su tan aclamado deseo se cumplió. Sus ojos se conectaron, el azul de sus iris chocando, comiéndose entre sí en una danza silenciosa, ansiosa, que ambos lo pensaron que con solo verse podrían asesinarse. Él volvió a correr en círculos, no se sentía en necesidad de volver a explicarlo, prefería ignorarlo ante todos en un juego de poder y humillación. Prefería pensar que nunca lo conoció, que nunca lo tocó, que ni sus palabras, ni sus cuerpos alguna vez coincidieron, pero ante la plenitud de estar solos ante los discos, camisetas y demás mercancía de variados géneros de metal con la música de “RATT” de fondo. No encontró razón para seguir guardando silencio, porque era un tipo bastante relajado, pero tenía sus límites y la sola presencia de Per ya cruzaba todas sus líneas, pero así mismo le gustaba cruzar líneas. 

— ¿Qué haces aquí? Pensé que no eras lo suficientemente bueno para la tienda de una estrella de rock mediocre y promedio en la ciudad llena de posers aspiracionistas como es Estocolmo.

Soltó divertidamente, mordiendo su lengua con la última frase. Para su sorpresa, el joven espectral ante él solo se mantuvo indiferente. Sus pies se movieron ruidosamente caminando un par de pasos por la tienda. “Como si se adueñara de mi espacio”, pensó Thomas golpeando el blando músculo cerebral dentro de su cráneo. Tan temprano en la mañana, al igual que la última vez, el mocoso de Västerhaninge llegaba a ser una maldita molestia. Podía verlo, más flacucho, con peor postura y un rostro de un hombre acabado, un patético retrato para alguien tan joven, pero él se lo había buscado, eso era lo que más le molestaba.

— Estás en mi tienda y no eres capaz de responder — murmuró aún más molesto. Todo en él le irritaba, su mala postura y solo repulsivo olor que delataban su mala higiene, y el cuerpo que alguna vez había encontrado fascinante, tan desgastado, se giró para verlo, sin ánimo. — ¿Qué quieres?

— Hoy vengo en labor de cliente. ¿Eres tan grosero con tus clientes siempre? 

La pregunta cayó como hielo. Negó, bajando su cabeza. Era casi cómico, un mal chiste, ver aquel mocoso altivo, que lo había provocado, sacudido, como si tuviera cuernos y lo estuviera empujando como un juvenil macho cabrío. Suspiro, esta vez, volvió su mirada a él sosteniéndola, observando cómo tomaba un par de discos de variadas secciones, pavoneándose como si conociera ese lugar de memoria para luego acercarse al mostrador. 

— ¿De veras no vienes para provocarme?

— Si lo quisiera hacer, hubiera meado en el ventanal de afuera mientras estabas perdido escribiendo tus tontas letras. 

Solo pudo mantenerse en silencio. Miró los largos dedos del hombre al frente suyo, maltratados, llenos de cicatrices y desnutridos al punto de lo absurdo, podría ser mezquino y decir que eran como palillos chinos, pero siendo más honesto consigo mismo, parecían ser tallos de rosas con las espinas rotas. Seguramente en ese mismo estado se encontraba todo su cuerpo, posibles cicatrices que no le importó conocer en su momento, ese impacto era como la bilis amarga en su boca, ¿Cómo su círculo interno o sus fans podrían decir que lo querían o admiraban cuando disfrutaban viendo lo que le hacía a su cuerpo? Sentía pena por el muerto, y como sus ojos no tenían una leve pizca de esperanza, le hacía replantear su odio, pero no lo suficiente para impedirle ser un bastardo como el otro.

— Cinderella, excelente opción, “long cold winter”, es uno de mis discos favoritos hasta que aprendes algo de música, ¿eh?

La risa suave salió como una declaración de victoria por su parte, una forma de decir “he ganado”, pero Per no parecía enfadado por su provocación, sus ojos revelaban su verdad, realmente parecía muerto, sus orbes azules pálidos estaban cansados decorados con manchas oscuras y amarillentas a su alrededor, ¿había pasado por una muerte espiritual? No poseía la voluntad para discutir.

— Es para mi hermana — murmuró por lo bajo, su voz era distinta, como si su aliento poseían un aire frío, totalmente gélido, se notaba que no quería seguir hablando — ella siempre le ha gustado este tipo de cosas.

— Entonces ella tiene un increíble gusto — lástima que este era su territorio, el territorio de Quorthon que solo vivía para su propio hedonismo, por consecuencia solo se cumpliría su voluntad — no sabía que tenías hermanos.

— No hablamos tanto para que lo supieras — explico rápidamente un poco exasperado, pero igualmente derrotado — no me gusta juntar a mi familia con esto, supongo que es un poco vergonzoso para ellos, ya sabes todos en la escena son una bola de idiotas y falsos, empezaron con bromas acerca de mi madre, no quiero que vayan por mis hermanos.

La comprensión de esas palabras lo hizo formar una mueca en su rostro; no era completamente una sonrisa. Un gesto que lo hizo sentir, no tan presumido, algo dentro de su confusa conciencia lo incitó a actuar fuera de sí. Si fuera cualquier otro, él lo hubiera mandado a la mierda, se reiría en su cara y lo escupiría si pudiera, pero no era cualquiera. Tomó aire, se alejó un par de centímetros del mostrador, luego hizo un movimiento de cabeza como señal para que fuera a su lado atrás de la caja registradora. Per le miró algo desconcertado, tampoco entendía muy bien el comportamiento del hombre mayor, quien compartía su propio disgusto. Sabía a total plenitud que podría estar caminando hacia la boca del lobo, pero él no era un hombre con sentido común, un ser vivo que no tenía aprecio por sí mismo. Decidió obedecer como un perro, reconociendo a su viejo amo. Esta vez fue a su lado, sentándose encima de una caja de madera llena de importaciones cubierta con una bandera sueca. 

— Eres un buen hermano…

Reconoció con un tono de voz conciliador que llevó a Per a un amargo sueño febril que decidió ignorar.

— No lo soy.

Aclaró rápidamente sin querer darle lugar a alguna confusión.

— Pareces serlo — volvió a señalar girando para verlo, tomó su lata de Pepsi y le dio un sorbo tragando el líquido para limpiar su boca como para darse fuerzas antes de volver hablar, aun sin saber cómo manejar la situación con todas sus capacidades — te seguí la pista — Admitió quitado de la pena para luego justificarse — aunque es imposible no hacerlo con su escándalo, lo habías estado logrando en Noruega ¿Por qué has vuelto? 

La pregunta quedó en el aire, como un acertijo, una duda que por más que el menor quisiera responder, no sabía cómo abordar, algo tembloroso estiró su mano exigiendo de la bebida del mayor, quien solo se la entregó como medio de concilio.

— Porque no soy un buen hermano.

Concluyó de manera tajante, una conclusión que sonaba tan sencilla, pero tan mordaz a la vez, una frase que se vio obligado a beber un largo trago de ese líquido dulce color petróleo que tanto detestaba “pero al menos no es coca-cola” se consoló Per tragando como si su vida dependiera de eso, su primer alimento, este negó apoyando su rostro contra su mano.

— ¿Es todo? 

La curiosidad genuina llenó el aire tenso, como si fuera una pecera que se inundaba del sentimiento recolectado por el par de suecos que apenas podían hablar sin saltar a sus yugulares, Per como respuesta se encogió de hombros, como si eso cubriera cualquier duda.

— Si crees que fracase en Noruega, que el tiempo que pase ahí fue una lucha inútil, totalmente estéril y no llegó a ningún lado… pues tienes razón, llevo cinco años desperdiciados, es todo.

— No diría que es un fracaso, para nada, aquellos, los idiotas que encuentran gusto a lo que sea que están haciendo, ellos te adoran.

— No quiero eso, no quiero ser adorado por los idiotas.

Aseguró mirando al suelo. Thomas por su parte mordió el interior de su mejilla, jugando con sus dedos en el probador, su postura dominante: con la espalda recta, pero relajada contra la madera negra finamente detallada, con sus largas piernas cubiertas del látex que se fundía con su carne, con sus elegantes apéndices cruzados una al frente de la otra, con las gafas de sol sobre su cabello castaño claro totalmente liso y brillante. Una imagen bien pulida y planeada contrastaba demasiado con la derrota del hombre que alguna vez fue llamado la escena del Black Metal noruego, tan triste.

— ¿Cuánto tiempo planeas quedarte?

Un débil sonido de duda escapó por la garganta del menor que no sabía cómo responder a eso, sus manos flacas viajaron hasta su cabello rubio, no muy bien cuidado, estaba grasoso y maltratado por los estragos de su acto, aun así jugueteo bastante entretenido con las fibras doradas entre sus dedos. Por unos momentos el movimiento repetitivo lo llevó a una especie de trance tan pacífico, la mirada perdida, no podía verlo.

— No lo sé, no lo he pensado lo suficiente, ¿quizás para siempre?, no en Estocolmo, no me gusta Estocolmo, esta ciudad me hace sentir enfermo, como, no lo sé, me siento sucio, como cuando Øystein ponía a Tangerine Dream en las mañanas.

— ¿Tangerine Dream? 

Murmuró algo incrédulo ante esa revelación, nunca pensó que alguien de la naturaleza del “Euronymous” disfrutará de una banda con un nombre tan cursi, pero mucho menos imagino que Per lo revelará con tanta facilidad, era obvio que el chico había vuelto apuñalado, con la herida sangrante abriéndose para dejar escapar todo lo que alguna vez había guardado exclusivamente para sí, con su mirada fría levantándose ante él, esa declaración silenciosa “me conoces desde el principio” claro, lo hacía, conocía su repugnancia, pero no la sensibilidad de su alma.

— Es, umm, ya sabes, un proyecto de electrónica, yo odio la electrónica — titubeó en su discurso, la mirada de Quorthon en su pálido rostro que mostraba su clara incomodidad al hablar de aquella música, siempre haciéndolo cruzar líneas — Es como, ya sabes, soundtrack de películas y cosas así, me hace sentir rato, como si pudiera tocar colores, él solía poner el soundtrack de “Wavelength” por la mañana, lo odiaba, desde “Alien Voices” hasta “Mojave End Title Reprise”, también insistiría para ver esas tontas películas con mensaje filosófico y trasfondo indescifrable, no las entiendo prefiero la sangre, le gustaba “Blue Velvet” insistiría en ver aquella cinta una y otra vez, me cansaba la vista, ¿Y el soundtrack?, ¡Un asco! 

Murmuró con sus ojos apagados, par de pozos hundidos en su piel blanca, cuál arena, Thomas comprendió que tenía al frente no a la muerte, sino un fantasma, pero lo que se va vuelve, y con mucha más fuerza.

— Lo odias tanto que pareces conocer cada detalle.

En ese instante aquel rostro inexpresivo soltó una chispa de vida, entendiendo la severidad de aquella puñalada, pero no retrocede, para nada, asintió con la cabeza más alta — para odiar algo debes conocerlo, yo odio mucho a Tangerine Dream, Pink Floyd, la estúpida filmografía de David Lynch y toda la mierda de sintetizador, me hace sentir mareado.

— Siempre has odiado que tengan poder y control sobre ti.

Señaló bastante jocoso de sus palabras, adoptando nuevamente una actitud de mierda, pero el rubio esta vez no se contentó escupiendo a sus pies. Las botas del mayor se llenaron de la saliva líquida sin gota de espesor en un reluciente tono amarillento, salida de los agrietados labios del menor, quien, molesto, se levantó para salir, sin querer dar más o para ser más preciso, brindarle más explicaciones.

— ¿Vuelves a huir?

Cuestionó Quorthon, ahora defensivo ante Per deseando asesinarlo en el acto, pero no queriendo que el otro se fuera, no de esa forma, no tan rápido. Per, no tenía más gana de hablar. La conciencia de Thomas golpeaba en su estómago hasta su cerebro, era su culpa, lo sabía, estaba tan orgulloso de poder verlo abrirse, como si aún fuera aquel chico nervioso quien se había presentado esa noche en “Heavy Sound Shop” hace apenas cuatro años, y lo había vuelto a cerrar de golpe, como un idiota.

— No odio el poder sobre mí, si piensas que lo hago no lo conoces, tú sabes bien lo que hiciste, no me conoces, ¿No?, no, para nada, pero siempre abres tu boca y lo jodes todo, no podías tratarme como un cliente — murmuró entre dientes, realmente molesto, pero Thomas estaba encantado, porque vio algo más que muerte en su mirada, porque lo prefería furioso, irritado como un demonio antes que frío como un muerto — No, nunca puedes ser real como todos los jodidos falsos que acolitas.

— ¿Lo que hice? ¿Qué hice? Dime Per, si fuiste tú quien se acercó a mí con todas esas palabras dulces y luego me mandaste al infierno como un bastardo, ¿Yo soy el malo aquí? — preguntó indignado, finalmente el peso del pasado cayendo como miles de agujas sobre sus cuerpos finos pedazos de metal que se enterraban bajo los músculos, lo que tanto había evitado por fin había regresado, por lo que se va vuelve y con mucha más fuerza — Yo realmente creía que tenías interés en mí, no en lo que podía darte.

La revelación sobresaltó al rubio, quien golpeó fuertemente su mano contra la madera  haciéndola temblar. La mirada de Quorthon fue hasta su cara tensa, contraída en una expresión de mera frustración, roja de la ira, brillante como una bombilla de Navidad. Después de todo el intercambio, de sus idas y vueltas, de correr en círculos finalmente lo había alcanzado, como una ráfaga de agua salada que se metió hasta sus pulmones, ahogándose con sus propias palabras, atragantado a los compatriotas, hasta que finalmente pudo vomitar encima de él, las palabras venenosas acompañadas con riegos de saliva sobre su rostro.

— ¡Tú crees que lo que hice esa noche lo hice para sacar algo de ti!, eres, ¡eres un maldito cerdo egocéntrico! — las manos de Per temblaban de la pura rabia producida por el puro odio generado por aquella revelación que le sabía a puro veneno — ¡Crees que me deje emascular porque pensé que tendría algo de ti!

Las afirmaciones se derramaban por la habitación que ahora parecía carente de aire, solo se llenaba por los interminables insultos del hombre más joven, de aquella desesperada llamada al cerebro de Thomas que apenas pudo procesar lo que pasaba. Mordió su labio, sintiendo la vergüenza que ocultaba despertar en sus entrañas, recorriendo desde el estómago hasta el esófago, clavándose en su garganta, realmente había cruzado sus límites, pero cómo lo iba a saber si su palabra había sido ley, si nunca había escuchado la versión del rubio que ahora se desmoronó y reconstruyó cuál fénix ante sus ojos. 

— Yo, yo nunca esperaba nada material de ti, solo estaba tan feliz de conocerte que mi fanatismo nubló mi visión, pero eres decepcionante — aceptó ante la verdad de frases, como si se arrancara una parte del esófago — ¡Siempre eres decepcionante! Una estrella de rock mediocre y promedio, un niño de papi que no sabe ganarse las cosas por sí mismo, por tu culpa me tuve que ir, tú me lanzaste a la desgracia, ¡si hubieras firmado a “Morbid” no me hubiera tenido que conformar con el infierno que es Noruega!

Las acusaciones sórdidas eran ya no eran agujas, eran puñales que solo desgarraban su conciencia, los ojos helados del hombre más delgado, su débil figura se alzaba imponente. Per, con la rabia de un hombre roto, volvió a escupir, pero esta vez cayendo su el rostro de Thomas, quien cerró sus ojos, apretó tanto sus puños como sus dientes. Ahora, Per estaba listo para pelear, lo estaba deseando, lo deseaba desde hace tanto, fantaseaba con este momento. No había llegado como este lo había deseado, cuando estuviera en la cima y todos reconocieran su nombre, él volvería por Quorthon, lo tomaría de los cuernos y arrastraría su cabeza contra el suelo, lo haría besar sus pies y lo pondría en su lugar, a la merced de la verdadera oscuridad. Ahora, bajo la sombra de su fracaso, no le importaban sus fantasías húmedas de venganza, los ojos de Quorthon encima de él lo excitaban, lo llevaban al estado primitivo del cerebro donde solo quedaba la respuesta de lucha o huida, y ya estaba cansado de huir, sus labios se apretaron acompañado el ceño fruncido, pero el mayor solo se alejó dándose la vuelta, buscando un pañuelo para limpiar su cara, otra vez decepcionante.

— No pienso hacer esto, ¿Siquiera te has mirado? — pregunto riendo ante el desconcierto de Per ante su reproche, poniendo las cosas a un extraño nivel, no necesitaba tantas palabras como el menor para lograr lastimar — pareces un cadáver, ¿Al menos tienes un trabajo con el cual solventar tus huesos?

Per negó lentamente en un arrebato de confusión ante la oleada de información sin entender el porqué de Quorthon, la duda ante su actuar era tan grande que parecía una sombra cuál Nosferatu — No, yo, no tengo nada por el momento, pensaba quedarme por la Pascua, pero ahora es definitivo, ya encontraré algo que hacer… ¿Qué te importa?

— ¿Tienes estudios adicionales? ¿Algún técnico luego de la escuela? 

Cuestionó impactado por la nueva negativa del menor que solo se encogió de hombros, sin saber muy bien qué responder, la gente no solía cuestionar que tan bien letrado estaba, a la escena no le interesaban esas cosas, solo asumen un nivel de estudio. Por lo general decían que él era listo, personalmente prefería decir que solo tenía personalidad, en ese momento tomó nuevamente un actuar dócil dejando su postura defensiva, Per adoptó curioso la mirada de Quorthon.

— ¿Qué tiene?

— ¿Cómo pensabas comprar los álbumes?

Per se encogió de hombros nuevamente, como una especie de tic corporal, seguido por otro y otro, parpadeando repetidamente como revoloteos de mariposas y luego mordió un poco su lengua de manera algo juguetona, no se iba a lastimar — Tengo algo de dinero ahorrado, bueno, lo justo, quería darles algo lindo como disculpa, y bueno, le pedí a un amigo que viniera a ver los precios y me ajuste a eso…

Murmuró tímidamente. Thomas asintió sintiéndose extraño, una mezcla de pena y ternura, a veces olvidaba la naturaleza del mocoso, ciertamente era muy duro con él, lo sabía. En su defensa, había algo de empujarlo y ver su reacción que le atraía, su furia era algo embriagante, un tipo de placer casi adictivo al verlo rabiar, pero ahora su rostro parece más inocente, ingenuo, como la primera vez que lo conoció. Sus pálidos ojos tristes, llenos de dudas, tan tierno que no podía evitar la risa que salía de sus labios por más que lo intentará, no era malicioso, solo una reacción natural al verlo de esa manera.

— Per, ¿Qué tal si vienes a trabajar aquí? Estoy ocupado con la banda y necesito alguien que sepa de música y pueda manejar todo esto, ¿Crees qué puedas manejarlo?

La pregunta se quedó en el aire por un buen rato, Per miro al suelo dando golpes suaves contra el mostrador mientras golpeaba el suelo con sus sucios zapatos en una especie de baile extraño, ¿sería capaz?, No lo sabía. Cuando Øystein hablo de Helvète no estaba emocionado, ni en lo más mínimo, no podía verse como la mano derecha del noruego, ya no, no se miraba limpiando estanterías y estando en interminables charlas acerca de la escena, estaba cansado, tan cansado. La tienda de Quorthon no era como inner circle, para nada, era un lugar de posers y principiantes en el mundo del metal, muy relajado, nadie lo reconocería, lo que más deseaba, desaparecer en el mundo del metal como un tipo de leyenda urbana. Si se confundía con los falsos, los demás idiotas simplemente lo olvidarían, podrían hasta excluirlo y apartarlo como un sucio traidor, ese pensamiento era un alivio, entonces decidido tomó los discos, alzó su mirada hacia el hombre de cabello castaño quien aún inquieto esperaba su respuesta.

— ¿Entonces? Que dices Per, ¿Estás dentro?

— Supongo que si, te estás quedando calvo del estrés, si fuera tú revisaría esas entradas — apuntó descaradamente mientras sostenía los álbumes contra su pecho como si estuviera intentando fundir el plástico con su cuerpo, el rostro de Thomas se llenó de sangre tan rápidamente que no lo pudo controlar tocando su cabello ante tal señalamiento, pero no pudo responder, pues Per ya estaba listo — ¿Cuándo comienzo?

— Mañana, te quiero aquí a las 9, la jornada laboral es regular, se te darán todas las prestaciones de la ley junto al salario mínimo, ¿Te parece bien?

Preguntó irónico, pues, sabía que el otro no tenía nada más, no es que los empleos cayeron del cielo, más para alguien como Per. Per quien asintió retrocediendo con los álbumes aun contra su cuerpo como si se los fueran arrebatar en algún momento, Per de cuyos delgados labios solo un ruido parecido a un “Mañana nos vemos” salió de su cuerpo como última declaración antes de salir del local tan fantasmagórico como entró. Solo entonces Thomas comprendió que seguía siendo un descarado, en ensueño que solo las alarmas que sonaban como estruendos pudieron despertarlo, su cuerpo saltó aún confundido por lo que acababa de ocurrir, rápidamente apagó las alarmas para luego negar con su cabeza que se mantenía un poco en las nubes. Ni siquiera sabía lo que había hecho, ni siquiera iba a cuestionar el porqué de su decisión, pero sea como fuere, ahora debía probarlo. Era tiempo, debía volver a probar el analgésico efecto de unir su cuerpo con el psicótico hombre muerto, era todo, no tenía más consuelo, solo “RATT” a todo volumen a través de los parlantes de la tienda entendían sus sentimientos.

[diediegamchicothdie]

Cherry Pie

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Yes, in this chapter they fuck

5/?

Also available in AO3

— So, since the opening of "Helvète" things have been tense, I’ve not been so interested in the band because my baby is almost born, then, he was desperate, he was with a kind of beast — explain calmly, while emptying the jar of mint on the counter, receiving a slight cough as a response — he started looking for vocalists, that was immediately after your departure, but it was horrible, I felt sorry for the poor bastard Attila, Øystein yelled at him saying that he would never be you and could not replace you, threatened him with death.

— Sounds like him, but he’s not serious, he’s just upset…

— Sound quite conciliatory, don’t try to justify it by being Øystein — he accused annoyed as he lay his body on the counter, hearing again the cough, surely created by the snowfall of the previous night — let me continue! — ordered taking a moment to clarify his voice — for Attila can not stand it and went away, at this point I regret not having followed him, but that is not the point, do you know a Varg? — asked curious, and when he received a positive gesture with his head — well, they were and another guy as aspiring vocalist: Erik and Varg, then put them to fight, a kind of competition to feed his ego.

— He is like that, but surely it’s just something for the scene, he loves the scene, I think if you need theatricality to choose a vocalist or something should leave.

— For having ended so badly you justify it enough — exclaimed in a rather annoying claim, but the distant look did not allow him to continue discussing that point — won Varg, and everything has been strange since then, it is suffocating to be with them in a rather tense relationship, Both try to be the voice of the "circle," you know?

— Øystein may have baby face, but he’s not a baby, he can handle it, he’s smart, he’ll manage.

— No, this is only going to get worse, it’s getting worse, and from now on I see it getting worse — strongly threatened the Swede who covered his mouth avoiding coughing out loud — I do not want to leave the band, I have many years of my life invested in it, and although I do not think it works, I want to give it one more chance — he said in a more conciliatory tone trying to convince the blond in front of him — then everything is going to shit, and it would be great if you came back.

Explain Jørn casually, playing with the presentation cards on the counter, in a relaxed posture, without the balls to look into his eyes. He behaved as if his request had not been a low blow to the Swede, who wished to be consumed by his foolish winter sweater. The cold was relentless, the snow falling and freezing everything in its path, but Pelle’s body was hot, terribly burning, like a piece of coal sleeping in his lungs, turning his mouth into a fireplace that only spat and spit.

— I don’t think that’s possible Jørn, I’ve been doing other things, other plans, away from music — the Swede mumbled trying to control his coughs, but also somewhat sorry for his response, guilty of not being able to accommodate that request — I’m at another point in my life now, far from what was 'Mayhem" to me.

That phrase made the chestnut angry, which only let out a sigh of anger, bit his lip, but he tries to keep talking without creating any scene worthy of a jealous bride — I know you are still upset with Øystein, At this point I think the only one who is satisfied with his childish act is Faust who looks like his dog, but believe me Pelle, I know that if you ask him again to be his vocalist he would accept you.

— I know he would accept me, but I don’t want to be his vocalist again, I don’t want to go back to Norway anymore, and I’m good here, I feel good, I haven’t felt so comfortable in a place for so long, and finally I’m doing things, I’m going somewhere, I don’t want to lose that.

— I never thought you’d say you’d be okay working for Quorthon, always insulting him.

Jørn pointed out with his more than incredulous expression, unable to fully understand the attitude of that blond man, but to give him credit he seemed much more careful. His skin looked reddish, but not because of the cold, it was a slight pink that hid in his white skin, his lips were usually broken and a little damp. His skinny body still covered by an exaggerated layer of clothing belonging to winter, his figure seemed healthier. As ironic as it was, the hatred managed to make the blond blooming in front of the blind eye of his ex-bandmates, who had hardly any knowledge of his life in those last months.

Pelle, for his part, still remained uneasy, had been really upset for a long time, so much that he wanted to kill Øystein put on his skin like a suit, eat his heart and exchange his eyes never to separate. His wicked mind was always planning some way to hold him, never leave him. Now he was in a strange peace, he would not say that he was happy, but achieving things little by little kept him quiet, he liked to be quiet.

— I keep insulting him, that he is my boss does not mean that I respect him or something — he explained taking the seriousness of his work relationship — we are just fine, I think we have reached a point where we can support each other.

— Are your friends?

He questioned again, as if trying to reach a truth that he was not sure he wanted to know at all, within him there was a voice crying out that he was not ready to know that revelation.

— Worst… — said in a playful tone, opening a mint and putting it into his mouth, an effort to not remember his encounters with the major, as at that point they had rolled around in every corner of the shop, with their boss who was waiting for him with his ear stuck in the office, he knew he couldn’t help but overhear their conversations — but, look Jørn, I just don’t think it would be wise to come back, I already explained it to Jon. I really hope "Mayhem" succeeds and Øystein did it, in the end he has always been the band, me not, there are better vocalists out there, just wait for a copy of the album as soon as it’s released.

— I understand, but if you want to come back call me, I’ll come pick you up.

Finish the chestnut in a clearly disappointed tone, could only turn around, listening to a slight "see you, happy holidays" from the blonde, who impatiently hope that he was out of the door. As soon as he saw the Norwegian coming out of the door, he rushed to the entrance, closing the door and changing the sign to "closed," being angry, was not much for what he felt at that moment.

His body was possessed by an intense fury, which made him tremble from the fingers until he wanted to vomit blood. Betrayal, that he felt, a betrayal so deep that he could feel a stab with every step I took. He remembered how he had asked him. He had told him more than once, he didn’t want this Kristian around his business, he had told him hundreds of times that he was a poser, only a mediocre, that his band smelled and looked queer. Furthermore, he had all the good reasons: his mediocre music, his sad black metal imitation, his stupid hairstyle which seemed to have been made by a cow’s tongue, his uncomfortably robust appearance and his white loser ideology.

As he hated Kristian, he was so high on his list of unwelcome subjects, and that Øystein would not have waited to cool his sheets to put him in his bed, he was going crazy. He felt really pathetic. While he was crying like an idiot, wishing for her touch, missing his kisses, dreaming of waking up again next to him. The other son of a bitch was soaking that dick with the fucking fat one with probable small penis. He was fed up, pain in his throat, fire in the blood.

He did not hesitate to enter the office, the chestnut looked at him in shock, was a few centimeters from the door, knew that he had captured it, but Thomas’s pathological jealousy was now not his problem. The older’s blue eyes stared at Pelle, who looked like he was about to kill him. Thomas took a breath, ready to apologize, but it wasn’t necessary at that moment, the blonde threw himself on his body, clasping his lips furiously. The blond man clenched his brown hair in strong fists that turned his knuckles red as his face, opened his mouth trying to eat his face, wanting to eat it, a clear denial of the will of the major. He did not care about his desire now, he wanted it for himself.

Thomas took the smallest by the hip, gathering their bodies, crushing the masses on the wooden desk. Rubbing himself like a needy dog against the loose clothes of the blond, who had stretched his hand on the desk, quickly found a pair of scissors and with these he opened the chestnut’s shirt, reaching to tear his skin. Both separated, in total shock, with the drops of blood coming out, and Pelle’s anger increasing.

— I’m fucked, really fucked, he’s fucking a fat little dick.

He said with anger in his eyes, no more crying at all, it was with his body against the wood, making him shudder in an uncomfortable revelation of blood and sweat, but Thomas was not surprised. They remained silent, only their breaths, as Pelle took strength to nail the scissors back to the chestnut’s side.

— A fat bastard who likes the Lord of the Rings and has his dick stuck with rotten cum!

He screamed again, making a tantrum under the elder’s body, an awkward movement of limbs clattering with his dicks rubbing hard under his clothes. Thomas, even in the mist of the stunned act, stroked the wound, his fresh blood, the red face of Yngve. Everything led to the same conclusion: anger, quickly raised his hand, in a strong movement dropped the palm on the face of the minor, creating a deaf sound, without echo that ended with the fight of the blonde, who aptly sighed, opening his jaw wide. His face contracted from pain, it was obvious that he was not a great fighter, he did not have much strength. The Taekwondo classes gave some fruit when he could separate himself from the higher with a knee in the stomach.

— Idiot! You didn’t have to hit me.

He accused the blond while sitting at the desk, with his legs spread and cold countenance, still incredulous of the chestnut’s act, trying to catch his breath. Pelle’s chest rose and fell as his left hand caressed her cheek in an act of affection, but the right one held the scissors, fiddling with the tip above her erection.

— You hit me…

He reclaimed, now in a lower tone, as if he had processed the fact, recalling the pain and tingling in the affected skin, as if it were an addictive touch. He looks at Thomas, eyes open, defiant, supplicant, slightly soaked, no more to say, his face raised again before Thomas, who took a breath to approach again, leaving another blow on the blond’s face. This time, Pelle received the blow to his sensitive skin with pleasure; he did not get upset this time, raised his hip more, pointing his bony pelvis towards the sun and his teeth sinking into his lips in a full expression of satisfaction.

— You’re a sick man — said with lips clenched in notorious anger, a grimace of complete satisfaction as he tore the silly Christmas sweater from his thin body — Do you like being hit?

He mumbled in the same low tone, as if he was analyzing the situation completely before finally deciding to get his erection out. His selfish act only fed the solemnity of the blonde, who passed the point of the knife on his own cock still protected under the denim, in a vertical line, ready to penetrate his member anxious of pain.

— I like to be hit, I don’t like you — laughed the smallest, kneeling on the desk, letting several papers fall on the floor — I like pain Thomas — he assures removing his t-shirt leaving his pale skin in the air, passing nails through his chest, leaving a bright red trail through his flesh — kill me.

— I’m not going to do it — he assures the chestnut, taking the blonde hair, forcing him to look him in the eye — I don’t want to fulfill your stupid whim, your childish dream of being dead.

The statement was strong, a dagger between their hearts, a huge gap between their minds, a desert. Thomas plunging his fingers into the wound, in an act of complete surrender, his fingers burning inside his flesh, as if his own blood were poison. He lifted Pelle’s face, leaning on his long hair to control his head as if he were a puppet. He controlled his skull with great ease, pressing his body down, causing the blond to stand on four on the wood.

Pelle, he exhibited her figure like a dog of contest, left the bloody hand to open his mouth, lowering her jaw until almost rubbing the neck. He opened his jaw in his almost unnatural form, with the tension on the muscles of the cheeks, the chestnut’s thick fingers wanted to hide in his throat, letting the metallic taste fall through his larynx, a weirdly warm velvet sheath.

— You’re alive — rebuked the elder, moving his fingers backwards and forwards, trying to get his hand into the blonde’s cavity — doesn’t the pain remind you how alive you are? , every time he hit you, you don’t feel your heart beat?

He questioned by pulling his hair harder, ripping out long hairs that got tangled between his fingers, the saliva fell like a waterfall between his skin, a transparent river of white foam clinging to the tanned skin of the elder. Pelle, with his watery eyes like glass on the shelves, a long look coming from the bottom of his troops. Did he recognize life? , life through pain, life through pleasure, a long journey that was born in the primitive brain, grew in the chest, fed his cock in a deep desire. Is life recognized through submission? The kneeling, how pathetic it felt, what good it felt, how desired it felt, a bitch in a sideboard.

— Can you answer me? - he questioned, pulling his wet fingers out of the sweet mouth of his lover — can you understand?

— I am alive — he whispered, carefully grasping the wood, afraid to fall, but annoyed to reveal the obviousness of his human nature — I am alive, really alive.

— This is real, painfully real — he clarified by walking around the young man, taking the scissors, to open a hole in the back of his jeans, stabbing the fabric, to finish opening the denim with his hands — Isn’t it amazing to live now?

The question rang in Pelle’s mind, he hated when they told him that kind of things, several times had talked about his desire to die. An elective secret, of course, although the only one who knew it brazenly was his father. He remembered well when he told him that he was already tired of living. Although it was not healthy to remember your parent while you are whipped, and you sigh with pleasure, the comment of Thomas was in his brain, like a seed of doubt. "I think you need a girlfriend" heard his father suggest when he spoke of his inability to connect with people, as despite his efforts he felt an invisible barrier that kept him away from the outside world. Social clumsiness is fixed by touching some girl’s breasts? , also remembered well how he attributed his sadness to lack of sex, a "Should you start fucking" had come out of his father’s mouth a couple of times. That sentence made him question his basic sexual need, was he having enough sex now? . He knew it well, since that summer night they had not stopped, could not help but lay hands on it and fall before the flesh and fire, so much passion kept. An uncomfortable relationship that did not arise from love, not even of necessity, animal. Both Thomas and his person were animals, taking sex as a power game.

— I could have lived very, very well without this.

He swore to move away from the elder, to put himself on his back, with his legs open and his sword stuck to the flat surface, dropping his head backwards like a corpse without will, ready to be devoured. Thomas’s lips rushed to kiss his neck, his hands poking at the underside of the child’s thighs, squeezing and scraping milk skin on their way to the boy’s genitals. He had always found it curious how Pelle was a Swede, resisting underwear and stripping at the slightest opportunity, thought he liked to be observed, but they could try something voyeuristic another day. Now he was focused on trimming his little waist, burying his fingers in the blond man’s rectum who celebrated by moving his hip up and down again.

Pelle’s hands were holding the major by the neck, wishing he’d never be separated from his body. He needed everything, he hated climax because that meant they had to push their skins away, and he needed a body of at least 80 kilos on top of him, crushing his lungs to function. The moist sound of lips hitting the sensitive neck of the blond, who laughed and begged more, trying to consume the other with the help of his hips, pressing the rectum, pushing more and more inside. The wet skin was a perfect nest, the only sweet spot that the blond could offer. Thomas heard him groan, sigh his name, roll his eyes hard, refusing to close them, it seemed so beautiful when he forced himself to see it through orgasm.

The wild blonde like himself, could change from a state of total submission, like a doll that lets itself be handled and hit to become a beast and attack its jugular. He moved elusive between their bodies, taking control of his body with great ease, a kind of magic that led him to bend to his long legs.

Driven by his confused mind, Pelle clung to the highest, climbing like a tree: nailing his nails all over his back, with his legs entwined in his lower belly, heels close to his coccyx, kicking with his heels, hitting the lower torso. It was cruel is his actions, had all the intention that would hurt, Pelle was not happy until he looked at his face in pain, a grimace of discomfort that generated his own smile, a sadistic movement. He separated his nails from the flesh and caressed the chestnut’s face in sorrow.

— Do you think that if we keep fucking at this rate… I could get better mentally?

He questioned stopping the act of Thomas, who, stood up carrying the blond, tied to his body, as if holding on to a last hope. Pelle’s comments always left him stunned, he never knew what to answer, maybe there was no correct answer for a crazy person. He sat in the chair, his breasts against each other, in a rapid motion until he could control his breath again.

— I think you need to go to therapy — finally released to the minor, while stroking his hair — no matter how much you fuck or fuck me, or whatever happens when you play dead, and I find you by chance in the tub, nothing of that will fix you.

The blonde sigh frustrated, hated the insistence on going to a psychiatrist — it seems you only know that — he claims sighing — when I was 13 I told my dad I didn’t want to live anymore, and he told me I just needed a girlfriend, later explained to me that I needed sex, I think I’ve always liked tits, but I didn’t understand the importance of tits, they are to feed them to babies, but fat guys have tits.

— They’re accumulated fat Pelle.

— I know it’s fat accumulated! , it’s the only way I like fat… but at that time I didn’t understand the tits — mumbled separating their chests, raised both hands up to where they were supposed to be located their own breasts — there was an idiot, called something like Anna, Anya, such shit, as I hated her, she was a bastard who made sure to watch the halls to make sure no one came while the bastards beat me, but… He looked at her chest a lot.

— Did you like her?

He asked, without understanding the point of the blonde’s explanations. The first answer was another open hand slap, this time on the tip of his head, and the second one was even stranger, a kind of spell that put his brain to sleep for a brief moment:

— No, I was comparing our chests… By the middle of the school year she finally had some nice breasts that were barely noticeable with loose shirts and gym clothes, but my chest was still flat, no nice tits for me. I was angry, it was so unfair, I also wanted a pair of charming breasts to play with them all day.

The explanation left Thomas astonished, without really understanding the reasons of Pelle’s thought. The youngest kept touching his chest, in a futile attempt to find some meat there, as if he was skinning a chicken bone.

— Do you want to have boobs?

Pelle nodded without much thought, as if he had been having that thought for a long time, ready to have his diatribe about his need to own breasts.

— A pair of small breasts would be cool, don’t you think? Apart from I’m not selfish, I’d also let you play with them, not always they’re mine, but I would.

He said in an attempt to reassure the major, who looked at him confused, as if trying to calm down the questions of his mind, offering the tender flesh of his breast as a kind of favor.

— Pelle, you want to be a girl?

He asks in the mist of confusion, as if he was having a bad dream, he did not understand it at all, nor his intentions, his feelings, maybe he could only walk by his side, trying to follow his step.

— No, I also like my penis, don’t you? —questioned the chestnut, while he took his hand to take his member, a tall and thin phallus as its carrier, pinkish pointed, wet by the pre-seminal liquid that could not stop squirting — I just want to have breasts, some cute breasts rub the fabric and I do not know…, my nipples are pretty, but they’re too small…

He mumbled fell into the ears of Thomas, who with his right hand took the breast of the minor, raising his fingers, starting to stroke his nipples. Pelle’s breath sped up, groaning with emotion, he was so happy, they never paid attention to that part, his legs trembled when the elder started hitting his nipples, pulling out the pink tips totally erect and finally sucking. His lips were biting, his teeth were struggling to sink into the battered flesh of that fallen "Ymir", his body was delicious, he found pleasure in every fold, in his broken bones and damaged skin. Yngve groaned, enjoying the elder’s care, stroking his hair with his left hand while the right uncomfortably settled to caress the fat, red, inflamed penis, like a dog’s erection of Thomas, as it made him tremble, Perhaps it was the animal need I had with the elder. He took a breath, looking at the ceiling, and thought what would happen if the system of lamps fell on them. He wanted to cum while dying, that’s why he was so desperately required the cock of Thomas inside, an act which major accepted with the same despair.

— You’re sexy… — the chestnut murmured with his eyes closed, even against his chest, but without ceasing to move on Pelle’s body, fucking the little one’s entrails for the pleasure of both bodies in need — you’re too sexy to be a sick man — he cleared again, kissing the space between his nipples, letting his lips fall right into the flatness of the upper sternum, stroking with his lips the armor of her heart — really sexy to be insane, Pelle I don’t know what spell you did to me, it worked, whatever you did, your dead animals, the texts of Thelema. I don’t know, you won.

The blond man shook his head, as he jumped on Thomas' lap, and took him by the hair again, getting them to look each other in the eye, a statement of power in their work.

— I, I have done nothing, only not to bear you — he clarified in a tender whisper — I have not haunted you, I dedicate myself to hate and desire you, it is like the "Marquis de Sade", the logic behind this, the moral does not exist Thomas, we are not here because it is right, I have never led my life in the right direction.

— I know you’re not, you’re a sick man, I’ll never tire of repeating how sick you are — reproached the major, kissing and biting his swollen lips, red as Yngve’s cherry — I don’t know what guides you, what consumes your head.

— Desire, I live for desire.

He cleared the blond, kissing again the elder, with his hands holding his face, preventing them from turning away, melting their bodies, soaking every part of the anatomy, the arms that they were tightening like chains. Pelle’s shining eyes reflected her climax, the sweet taste of ecstasy she shared with Thomas, their shared desire poured out. Thick semen was expelled from his body, a ritual almost complete except for the minor’s disgust, who rose with his long legs trembling and buttocks overflowing with the ejaculation of the older, so disgusting.

— I told you not to do it inside!

Claim taking the chestnut of the doll, taking advantage that he was still with his head in the clouds for orgasm, could not fight against so much whim and claim, fell to the ground like a vile object. The blond, with his anger to a living skin, settled down, putting foot and foot on each side of the chestnut’s head, crushing his hair in shoes filled with the dust from the basement. His head lowered a few centimeters, appreciating the face of confusion of Thomas, had his body trembling, the cock soft and the mind full of questions that he could not realize, Pelle sat on his face.

— ¡Clean it! — demanded, clenching her thighs against the elder’s face, as she stared at the chestnut’s black boots in a sad attempt to not get excited again — Don’t you love the clarity of post-orgasm? I always try to masturbate before doing something — explained the minor, clenching his fists on Thomas' chest, putting his body forward, trying to keep balance - I like to have my big loose balls free before drawing or composing.

Thomas’s hands caught on Pelle’s red, irritated buttocks, moving his body up and down, trying to breathe and do a better job with what he had. He took all his concentration trying to be agile by sticking his tongue all the way down to the bottom of the rectum, hastily the wet flesh penetrated the loose anus of the blond who kept himself in his world.

— That’s sad, when sex only becomes a biological obligation, I like desire, desire above morality, morality is something so susceptible to change of generation, population, interests — he assures moving at the pace set by the major, feeling that mouth suck his anus with great enthusiasm, it was not a punishment — the desire does not change according to morality, everything in us is wrong, our bodies repel each other, but how can we not be together when the desire is so intense? , morality doesn’t manifest physically, but our desire, this, your tongue cleaning up and eating my shit, this is real.

He assured the minor, releasing the last groan accompanied by a cough that made him come down from the face of Thomas. Thomas, who quickly approached, hugging him by the shoulders, his cough out strong and intense, like a cat being tortured.

— I’ll get you some water.

The older one promised, leaving the boy on the ground, he twisted a little more, taking his sweater to cover his mouth until finally he could control his breath. His chest up and down, accompanied by the burning sensation in his chest. Thomas stroked his back, offering a bottle of water and sitting next to him, caressing the blonde’s hair in a comforting movement.

— I don’t think that we are united only by hatred or desire — he says timidly, as if he didn’t want to upset the mink of the world that had the blond — but I am annoyed with your coughing attacks, you should go to the doctor.

He recommended quietly, looking up and down at the Adam’s apple, such a hypnotic movement, relaxing him, as if he were seeing some kind of living art.

— I’m fine, those things come with asthma, I’ve been feeling weird since I was in Leipzig, lots of pollution — he mumbled leaning his head on Thomas’s neck, closing his eyes — I hate going to the doctor, it’s expensive and they never do anything.

The chestnut man wheezed his eyes to control his mouth — I could make a list of things you hate and people you hate: the semlas, Kate Bush, the Christians, the fat people, most non-metal music especially rap, Scandinavia, technological advancement, war when it destroys historic sites, Norwegian national television, Garfield, cats, and me.

The most resigned term for the situation of the minor, hated that he was so stubborn in health question, could swear that he watch him spit blood sometime, but could not confirm.

— Don’t forget your father, and more because we had to change of department — he assures you, knowing it was only a matter of time for his silent move to Thomas' apartment to be completed, even if he’s last, he’ll look at it as if he’d declared war on Yugoslavia — and don’t forget stupid Anya for her precocious breasts.

The bitterness of his statement as strong as it was loud made to laugh the major who under his hands squeezed Pelle’s chest, who this time tried to walk away.

— Stop it!

— Don’t scream when you have sore throat — he asks in a severe voice as he rests his head on this guy’s shoulder in the middle of his tantrum — I like your tits, I swear, and if you were a girl I would stop being a pussy just to eat them all day.

Pelle stood still, laughing at the comment and closed his eyes taking a little more water, as his throat itched, he was residues of the body that hates himself.

— I like that of being no more a fag… I’m such a fag to put up with everything, to live inert, if I could cut my fingers and tie my hands…

Wandering again, thoughts disconnected from his reality, a state of such strange peace, he no longer even remembered why he was angry at first. He had been very angry with Øystein at the beginning of their separation, had cursed him: when he died would drag him away with him, then felt sad, so desolate, thinking he was never going to love again, that the love that the Norwegian offered him was not easy to find and finally nostalgic. Beyond the recent sense of betrayal, it was all a memory, to say that he once had a friend, his best friend, obsessed with communism and Coca-Cola, with whom he learned to kiss. It was far from Norway, and what was, will never be.

— You’re doing well, believe me, you have good grades, your portfolio is progressing and although you can’t heal yourself, you are trying.

This greeting blushed the boy, who playfully pushed Thomas with his shoulder, looking for the water bottle.

— You can talk to me about the fields of "Fólkvangr" — asked in a low voice, holding his sweater strongly already felt itching in the throat — I want to live in Transylvania, and have a large garden for myself to plant wolfsbane and petunias, go to art school and make comics like "Alan Moore," but a real art school… , I want that.

He said, taking his sweater, pressing the wool against his mouth ready to cough. Thomas’s fingers comforted him, returning to talk of the first place you see when you arrive at "Valhalla", his account was calm and firm, stable on the wooden floor, his body warm as medicine. Pelle’s eyes were pressed hard, coughing all the mucus he could, sweet words were far away, as if he wanted to take something from a distance. The cold of winter did not help his lungs, he really wanted to be in a warmer place. Although the words of the chestnut’s tale were sweet as the red-berry tea he brewed every morning, he could not diminish the crimson stain that appeared on the cloth. A proud spill of blood that dyed the green wool, the true declaration of war for that couple who could only observe the sample of Yngve’s lung tear.

[diediegamchicothdie]

Still of the Night

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Baby comeback, I was wrong, I can't live without you.

3/?

Also available in AO3!!!!

The music was loud, mixed with the strong smell of tobacco and alcohol. The air was running out in the room full of idiots, making Per even less patient. The noise of guitar solos, laughing posers and beer bottles crashing, felt his body heavy, really didn’t want to do anything, but was bound by that contract. He looks behind the bar, he was not yet used to that place. Although it had been a long time since he started his work days, there was something that his body rejected from Quorthon’s shop, as if this place would cause him to rot. Still far from the social circle full of annoying conversations, foolish girls who approached in vain tried to attract the attention of the chestnut without success, tarts fame-seekers who would not get anywhere. For his part, he kept himself distant, distant in body, perhaps a bit too in mind, just landing to check on the jerks or bring more bottles or cigars for Thomas’s invented ones. 

Thomas, who played to drink a beer and then put his eyes on the blond who was only there to be paid for overtime. Part of him wished that But he had been more interested, perhaps the seventeen-year-old Per would have jumped out of his skin for the thrill of sharing such an intimate space with him, no longer. He himself knew it better than anyone, The Per he met years ago was blinded by a sickly fanaticism, an obsession passionate about him, who until that moment was his idol. To the disgrace of Yngve who used to idealize people too much, he had not fulfilled their expectations. Sure, it was very easy to write emails where the tone remained mysterious, hidden between the veil of distance and the cold of technology, preferred that to much warmer and more personal letters. Per loved the cruel version his mind had concocted, the terrible man who screamed on the records he had so much cherished, for whom the name “Bathory” was carved into his body. It was bad to think of them, perhaps, but it was impossible for him not to do so with Per. If he had been the man that the blond man desired, perhaps he would be the one huddled against his chest that night. Instead, he was now standing at the counter, with his tired celestial eyes, patiently staring at his low pamphlet, as if chewing every letter printed on the paper.

The tension was like a piece of ice, it burned slowly if you held it for a long time, but kept the room cool. Thomas liked the feeling, the insults so sincere contrasted with the idyllic atmosphere, as if the cold hands dragged him to the ground, it would be so perfect if only the two of them. Now, Per was content to ignore, could not keep up with the situation, felt that accommodating himself to Quorthon’s needs was a matter, though exclusively monetary, carried a trail of humiliation, as if he had given him reason. Perhaps he should have listened to the major and not pursued such absurd dreams.

Per never thought to set foot in “HeavySound” again, much less behind the counter, cleaning up dust and monitoring Quorthon, he was decent, had spent years fixing his brothers' messes. Later than early, Per had learned to be in charge, with his parents busy between work, their drama and eventual separation, he came to the realization that it was just him and his brothers. Strangely feminine, quickly took the form of mother and father, knew how to do everything required in a home. A load that came from dawn to dusk. With such a small body and broken hands, he soon began to get impatient, carried along by his little brothers. 

Soon at school they began to murmur, Per, with small body, belly of wire and legs of stick.  He who carried the little children to their halls, and waited for them with some book in his hands until the moment of leaving, was a fag. You can not deny nature, nor educate the fool, Per, so young and innocent was just like a woman. Do not deny the tree with twisted branches, it must be cut. The rumors fell in blows on the blond’s body, as if it were snow, his limbs numb as if he had struck a frozen lake, and all murmured “Per has his mother’s face!”.

He had no peace in those who were misnamed the sweetest years, felt the beasts lurking behind his small figure, burning eyes on his neck. Perhaps the burning eyes of Quorthon, who had always reminded him of a werewolf, hurt him so much, devoured him in the days. Although his routine was oddly comforting, with the blonde arriving at 9 AM and leaving at 7 PM, perhaps a little longer. Had nothing better to do than talk shit of Quorthon in his face, besides cleaning, attending assholes, selling shit music and making coffee, besides ordering the worst possible lunch for his boss (as I did not lose hope that the latter would have been poisoned by surströmming).  The routine slowly killed him, like dust accumulating in his lungs, he felt his asthma strike behind his bronchi, scratching the back of his throat and filling his respiratory system with mucus. Everything was suffocating, he felt his lungs weaken with each breath of air, as if they could hardly function, so the arrival of Jon was a breeze of icy wind for his heavy chest.

— Pelle! I’m so happy to finally see you.

He salutes the teenager with his face that still had childish features, cheeks a little chubby and the look of berk. Pelle could not help smiling back as she took off her blanket, feeling a strange familiarity with the boy, he could easily be another of his brothers. He was endearing, cute. 

— Anyway, I didn’t think you’d really come.

Said Pelle, his voice still as he placed his chest on the counter. 

— Of course I would! You tell me that you can see me now and then invite me to the Quorthon shop, it was pretty good to be true.

Pelle laughed, approaching the boy with complicity, putting her lips as close as his ear. Jon, also put his side by bringing his body closer to the major who seemed far away from the frontman of “mayhem”, yet could feel the darkness in his pale eyes, this excited him. 

The elder’s fine lips opened in a malicious smile that accompanied his poisonous words — Quorthon is just a poser whose daddy pays everything.

He muttered the poisonous but firm words in a brazen mockery of his boss, who was just inches from the pair of young men laughing loudly, in a complicity that neither Per nor Thomas could experience.

— I know, I still like your music.

Admitted the teenager, with his face slightly flushed, he was really ashamed to admit that in front of Pelle, who took away weight from his insecurity by shrugging his shoulders.

— If you say so, I will not argue with you, not tonight — threatened Pelle in a jester tone while he was away playing to have a more serious attitude.

— Are you upset that I still like his music even though he’s a poser?

Jon asked, with his eyes looking forward to the blonde, who shook his head as he walked away for a beer.

— For nothing Jon, I’ve already told you, do not pay too much attention to us, if it helps you to continue doing brutal — clarified the blonde by bringing the drink to the minor who took it anxious — Do you want to go meet him? 

The question was in the air as Jon quickly drank the drink, stood watching the liquid go down his throat, and then the bottle fell on the counter with a strong blow. The intense eyes on Jon were set upon him, as if he was about to kill him. That thought made him so happy, that Pelle could not help enlarging his smile. Jon’s nerves were piling up in his throat, hitting his chest hard, as if he could vomit his heart at that moment, the seconds lengthened into a silent talk, until he could speak.

— What happened to “mayhem”? , with Øystein? , I was hoping to see you, I say, you both, together, in Oslo next year.

Pelle’s smile broke, he took it from the counter and refused to walk a little, trying to regulate the words that ran in his mind, what happened with Øystein? , that was the real question. It was time to recognize that I still did not know how to deal with the situation, it was a fresh wound that hurt with the slightest breath of fresh breeze. He couldn’t think, his head hurt, What happened to Øystein? He wanted to know, too. 

— You shouldn’t ask that kind of thing on an empty stomach, sure you’ve traveled all day, let’s go inside, I still have my lunch — Yngve explained while fiddling with his fingers on the table. After a moment he decided, I walk a couple of steps. Finally, he got close enough to Quorthon to scream with all his might — I’m going to the cellar! 

The loud voice overcame the music, now Thomas could focus all his attention on the blonde without it looking weird. He stood up, leaving his guests aside to stand in front of Pelle, who had already taken the liberty of passing Jon behind the counter. Displeased, he held his gaze fixed on the blond, who seemed upset at not being able to follow his whim, grumbling slightly as he took off his latex gloves.

— What do you want?

He questioned, already irritated by the silence of his boss who was driving him crazy, pushing his fury with his silence. His gaze that revisited Per’s face and the face of the kid who hid what tick behind the back of the dead boy. 

— Who is he? You didn’t tell me you had a guest.

— It’s Jon, he’s my friend, he has a band, and he’s just looking for advice.

— What kind of advice?

Demanded to know Thomas, who did not trust in that closeness, in his eyes the way of acting of both young men was totally reprehensible, who watched him with a desire to tear off his head.

— What do you care! Those are personal things of us.

Pelle fought back while Jon, like a little child, hid behind his back, with his head slightly down. This attitude made Thomas upset, who gave his beer to Per by pushing it against his chest, with a smile he ordered: “Open it”. The left hand took the bottle, brought it to its mouth, hooked the metal cap to its lips, cutting a bit of its mouth. Per felt the blood, tasted it and then pressed, pulling the cold metal, a hollow sound rumbled in the ears of the Per. The aluminum lay between the cracked lips, suffering pressure from Yngve, before being ejected with a burst of saliva. With the accuracy of a marksman, the cap flew like a projectile to the chestnut’s forehead, who took a few steps back. Thomas’s hand stroked his forehead, the traces of saliva stuck on his fingers, so gross. He wanted to disappear for a moment, but he could not do it, much less could control his employee, who had already gone down to the cellar next to the teenager.

Pelle sighed, annoyed, really hated that bastard whom he had chosen as chief. He shook a little the feeling and all the food tray that had saved, really did not want anything.

— It’s chicken, eat, I haven’t touched it.

Offered Pelle while he settled on one of the boxes of merchandise. Jon imitated him quickly, he ate desperately and stained his face in the process, had not eaten anything since morning and that was already affecting him. He chewed large chunks of food in front of Pelle’s tender smile, who was already preparing his speech. While Jon’s stomach was heating up, Pelle’s was cooling down, not so long ago it felt like that, between the file of his memory the images became clear. What happened with Øystein? , he didn’t know it well either, that’s life. He had his heart in the mouth, he wanted to spit it out, resigned himself to all the feelings that still made him human. Pelle I saw the night come out with love, he looked at the moon in Øystein’s face, he knew that they were breaking before the fall of the stars before dawn. What happened to them? , he didn’t know, he was still trying to process the end of both.

— About Øystein… can you tell me what happened?

Question the teenager in a low voice, as if he feared to start an explosive reaction in the major, it was obvious that this affected him, even though he tried to stay strong. Pelle, he had a pale face, with the eye basin sunken. Pelle was a strong guy, only shrugged his head.

— Things just didn’t go as we planned, at first it was great, everything seemed to be going well, until it wasn’t.

— Why?

The question, so simple, carried with it a veil of doubt, a waterfall that reminded him of the tears that Pelle had shed from his journey from Norway to Sweden, shattered, with lungs like a forest fire. He could do it, he looked down at the floor, that helped him to keep his voice loud.

— Human relationships are very complex, sometimes everything goes sideways, that’s very easy to happen — he clarified by taking a can of beer that was in a six-pack they had not yet opened, he was supposed not to drink on the working day, but the words hurt his throat — our relationship gave us more suffering than kindness, the band was not going anywhere, and Øystein was making plans in which I did not want to participate.

— Have you been fighting?

Curiosity mixed with genuine concern, uneasy about the situation he had completely ignored. Pelle noticed how the teenager struggled to understand the dynamics of that broken relationship, he understood it, it is difficult to let go of people.

— No, in the end we did not, just talked and agreed — he explained with a calm voice. Carefully choosing each word to avoid misunderstandings — the last few months we were already supporting each other, fighting all the time — the words of Pelle stopped in the eyes of Jon, were lacking in brightness, was there, with the disappointment stabbing his brain, as it hurt him to do that — just, we no longer wanted to feel like this, we came to the conclusion of following separate paths.

— What now? — questioned still stunned, Jon thought that would never happen, but apparently even people who live tied to the hip can separate not return, or no? — Do you have other plans? Are you going back to music?

Pelle again denied with his head in an act of resignation — No, things are better this way, now we’re just at different times, different things, Øystein is going to open the store and a record company, now he keeps saying that it’s only going to be for Norwegian bands, but it won’t last long, opens the doors to anyone he likes.

— I understand — the teenager muttered, he felt defeated, but Pelle came over stroking his back in a comforting act — I really wanted to see them both next year in Norway, now I don’t know if I want to go. 

— Don’t say that Jon, Øystein is really cool, the most brutal guy I’ve ever met, whatever happened to us should not destroy the relationship you already have.

— You gonna be mad at me for going with him?

The question made Pelle laugh slightly who again denied — No, not at all, I know you will do it amazing, hated listening to the demos of all those idiots who thought their music was good enough to be called black metal, but you, your band was always something special, don’t ruin that opportunity.

Jon nodded by leaning his head against Pelle’s shoulder, sighing, letting go of his doubts for a moment. The loud music was muffled by the concrete walls of the basement, the white light, the black painted walls and the blonde who looked like a ghost under the dim lighting. Everything was so confused, the scene I had heard so much about no longer existed in the same way, and the man I had spoken to for over a year, death, was as warm as a mother. The blonde was aware of it, the approach so sweet, both experienced at the time, with his hand on the shoulder of the chestnut as a sign of comfort. He felt like judging, as if something was behind the door, looking behind the door, stalking his movements, as if he was doing something dirty. He knew that he was not doing it, Jon was just a child whose idol had disappointed him, but he would be fine, he was strong, more than anyone, could overcome it. What could never be changed is that Pelle had his mother’s face, but perhaps he was a little more like his father.

— Come on, let’s go.

He said getting up to leave the place with his heavy feet, really it weighed him walking. Jon followed him in the same step as he wiped his mouth.

— So what do you plan to do?

— I want to enter an art school, I thought of “Konstfack” or “Kungliga Konsthögskolan”, but, all require me to finish school, open a portfolio and stuff — I explain something annoying by the situation — it’s very complicated, and I don’t know if I managed, Besides there’s an aptitude test and an interview, I’m terrible at it.

— You can finish school at a distance, take classes from home, maybe in the middle of work, find a space and finish the lessons.

Cheer up Jon as they returned to the counter. Pelle shrugged, taking a couple of beers to pour. The suggestion made Pelle smile foolishly, who took the beer in small sips and then answered.

— You may be right, but the aptitude test and the interview… it kind of keeps me up at night.

— You’ll do it incredible, they’d be idiots who know nothing about art if they ever turned you down — the words came out of his mouth while he was bringing his beer to Pelle, who only raised an eyebrow — let’s drink, because when you present your works I will be the first to go see them, I swear it in the name of Satan!

Jon lifted his beer over his head, with a serious expression, squeezing his lips and lowering his eyebrows. Pelle nodded, laughing at the boy’s excitement. The beers collided and were then swallowed in a silly game, a competition of who finished his drink first. Pelle finally relaxed, talked to the teenager, a little more, the band, the music, the future plans of “Dissection”. Jon’s eyes were alive, and terrifying, a beast. Pelle smiled, knowing he could do what he always dreamed of, trusting Jon so much.

The clock struck 10 o'clock, it was time to leave, the blond smiled, stretched out thundering his backbones and let out a sigh. He looked at Jon saying “I’m going to get my jacket and we’re leaving” and then left the last beer in front of him. Walk to the kitchen where he had left his things that morning, started preparing for his departure, but his boss prevented him with a quiet but firm sentence.

— I thought you were staying here until the party was over.

Said Quorthon lying on the frame of the door, he was drunk, and his expression was obvious annoyance. Pelle refused without paying much attention, while he looked in the cupboard for a pack of cookies.

— No, I would do triple, maybe, quadruple shift, and the truth I want to rest — opened the package while he took the sweet to his mouth, giving a small bite, chewing ridiculously slow — Besides, I want to take Jon to his aunt’s house, is a little drunk and is younger.

— I overheard your conversation.

That revelation angered the blond, who approached threateningly, pushing Quorthon against the wall of the corridor, hitting his boss head and back in the act. His face with the expression totally irritated, out of place. Per had the face of a maniac, really was a psychotic, because he still remembered well the gifts of fresh dead animals. That meant love for Per, a crucified rat.

— ¡You’re a fucking gossip! I told you it was personal stuff! — The blonde guy screams loudly, taking the torn neck of the chestnut man’s shirt as he sighs — What the fuck do you care what he is talking to?!

Thomas’s eyes opened wide, his trembling hands took Per by the shoulders, pushing him away from him, ripping off some of the highest man’s clothes in the process. The blond banged against the wall, leaving a faint white noise on his head, but he didn’t have time for that. Walk behind the chestnut, who was yelling at his guests to leave. Drunk and aggressive, he quickly took people out, turned off the music and broke beer bottles out of frustration. Pelle was disgusted, looked at him with disgust as he approached Jon and took him by the shoulder.

— What’s the matter?

Asked the teenager confused by the scene, somewhat astonished by the vocalist of “Bathory”, so far from the perfect image of the face of Swedish extreme metal. 

— It happens that he is an idiot who does not know how to face the consequences of his actions — I assure you while starting to walk next to the chestnut — I told you, he is a fucking idiot, apart from love gossiping.

Jon, who was clearly already drunk, laughed loudly, calling the attention of the rest of Quorthon’s stupid friends who also came out, embarrassed or upset by being taken out in that way. For his part, the youngest still clung to Pelle not to go away from face to face, he still did not know how to handle so much alcohol in his blood. They walked to finally meet under the huge flame moon of June, the blond always puzzled and terrified by the passing of time, as if it stabbed him. I look at the huge moon with eyes full of nostalgia, What happened with Øystein? 

He held the boy by his side, plunged into thoughts, talking mentally to the moon. His mind was a hole that swallowed every sense of solemnity, until he felt as they stroked from the nape of his neck to the lower part of his back. The blond man quickly turned, in a little leap, before he saw him, he recognized the warm and large hands that touched him so familiarly.

— Take me home, I can’t drive like this.

He asked with his head down, as if he were a scolded dog, pathetic, impotent, and above all, terribly drunk. Pelle thought of it, he didn’t want anything to do with the jerk who kept embarrassed by his acting, but Jon was drunk, and it would be great if he vomited in his boss’s car.

— Okay, give me the keys.

Per demanded, stretching his hand towards the chestnut’s face, who quickly handed them to him. They walked quietly to the car, which they soon boarded, with Jon lying in the back seats, Thomas as co-pilot and Pelle in front. He took a sigh, pulled out a pack of snus and bit it, smashing it between his teeth hard before pulling away. The contents were spilling in his mouth as he sped through the streets of Stockholm. Their eyes fixed on the road, avoiding looking at Quorthon who had not stopped looking at him since they left, nor knew what he wanted, but it was not good. The journey was short to get to Jon’s house, parked in front of this and said goodbye to the boy with a “take care, then we will see the city,” he promised firmly with the minor, following his lively tone reply: "Let’s hit some faggots fans of Glam". The strong between both frame the end of that intense night, followed the calm post storm, Jon took all the chaos when he got out of the car (to Per’s sadness: no trace of vomit). 

After the farewell, there was silence among the passengers, with the lights off and the radio disabled. Pelle, now turned to look at Quorthon who did not understand his look, could only remain silent waiting for the minor to speak, to his misfortune, Yngve no longer had any interest. It was time to be swallowed up by the violent silence of the Swedish streets. Neon lights blinded the chestnut, the face of the blond with the red face of the traffic light, a demon. The chestnut licked his lips, with his hands clients, even with alcohol in the system, really enraptured. He thought of all that happened as he put a lock of hair behind Per’s ear, this act did not mute him, it was another of the occurrences of missing gray matter of Quorthon, who began to speak. Now he knew he needed to do it.

— So, what about Pelle?

Question that nickname, curious about it. Pelle, was as similar as different, much more tender in some way. Soft on the palate, did not scratch the throat as its original name.

— My friends call me Pelle, it’s a nickname for affection.

Explain the blonde spinning through the streets without a fixed sense, only the desire to explore the streets in the quiet night, empty streets, only the two enemies who by chance shared the road.

— It’s a good nickname…

— It’s a nickname — short the blonde very quickly trivial conversation, as he hated them — Where do you want to go? , you haven’t told me where your house is — he pointed out with quite desperate obviousness for the attitude of the highest — Tell me!

— Don’t yell at me…

Asked Thomas in a submissive tone, fabricated by the grief that still generated the scene of jealousy. There was no logical reason why Per could have such a real connection, what part of his disgusting being was worthy of so much trust? , what did the dead man have to be treated with kindness even though he didn’t deserve it? Life was really unfair, despite his success had been condemned to be Fenrir. He was isolated, afraid to open up, never had felt that anyone had the desire to hear his words, not even his music was appreciated as he wanted it. He lazily leaned his face on his right hand, holding with the little strength that alcohol had not snatched from him, and licked his lips shyly to begin talking.

— The "Heimskringla" has 16 tales, well, those that have been considered official so far — he started to explain by playing with his fingers on the dashboard of the car, felt Per’s eyes on him, a really curious look — It is better known as "Chronicle of the Nordic Kings" but I prefer to use our own language to define it, it’s like taking ownership of my roots. I fell in love with that book when I was about 12 years old, it was fascinating.

— What made you fall in love with that book?

Asked curious Per, who now, himself debated to see the chestnut or see the road. Thomas was pleased, tapping his fingers harder against the board. He moved his head from side to side, with his eyes looking at the blond, at the road, and within his memory, happy to be able to talk, finally talking about something important. 

— It’s fascinating, the first part talks exclusively about mythology, although small touches of reality, small introductions to meet the first Scandinavian kings — his eyes the blonde who tried to give him all his attention, jumping between the streets, until the darkness consumed them, moving away from the city — For me the book is divided after the death of Odin, it’s when it takes a more serious turn, well, it’s not as if the above was a joke, There had been a lot of fucked-up things going on since the “Ynglings” were crowned, but when Odin died.

Per looked at him with an expression of utter disbelief before stopping at the entrance to a forest, looked down for a while — did Odin die?

— Yes, he was murdered, it’s common knowledge, everyone knows.

— I didn’t know, he was supposed to be very powerful, how did he die?

Asked Per curious about that information. Thomas nodded slowly and stepped out of the car to sit at the front of the car, leaning against the windscreen. Per imitated the action by sitting next to him while offering a pack of snus that Thomas accepted.

— It’s a complicated thing, in my opinion it starts from the search for knowledge of "Odin", who knowing already the prophecy of the "Ragnarök" takes a reflective position before the end of days - explained while he bit the pack of snus, popping between his teeth, relaxed a little more and timidly approached by passing his fingers on the thin arm of Per - he "Ragnarök" was an inevitable event, like the death of "Odin", here comes someone very important: "Fenrir", son of "Loki", a large wolf that had been banished by the fear of the Gods, as it became larger and more and more filled with resentment when denied contact with others, but the burden of "Fenrir" is that it could not be controlled.

— Is it so bad not to be controlled? —  questioned Per, full of snus, with relaxed eyes, tired, just like his words, soft but doubtful, really understanding the chestnut’s words —  He was just being the same, instincts can’t be held back, only coupled.

Thomas firmly denied while he was settling down to detail the cold eyes of Per, so sad —      joined the chaos of "Ragnarök", finally facing the cause of his loneliness, for him already strengthened "Fenrir" was not difficult to kill "Odin", who had already been through enough battles, even with his few forces, tried to fight back, but we can’t beat fate —  he explains as his hand went up Per’s arm to his shoulder, doubting if he would touch his face —  died like a warrior, the death of "Odin" was like the death of "Ragnarök" itself, the ultimate sacrifice to make way for the new world composed of fumes and gods who managed to survive.

At the end of the explanation, Per nodded slowly as he closed his eyes, he really needed to rest. He stuck his face against the windscreen, exhausted, it was too much for today.

-I’m sorry to have overheard your conversation, it was weird seeing you in confidence with such a young boy…

He admitted shyly, hated to say that he had been wrong, but the anger of the blond was much more weighty. Shy because, he who was the biggest among the three had not endured curiosity, jealousy, everything, was weak before everything. 

— No, I’m not like you — explained the minor with a laugh, but without raising his head and much less open his eyes — it is something rare, very significant for both.

-You were like a father explaining a divorce.

He pointed out Thomas with suspicion, did not want to hear the words, but had to, because otherwise I would end up killing him. He would end up dead because of the intrigue.

— It’s a bit like that, now I understand a bit my father — he explained to finally sit down, taking his words into the woods, it was obvious that he didn’t even want to keep them in his mind — when my parents got divorced, it was really fucked up, obviously they no longer loved each other, Maybe they never did.

— Where are we? 

Asked the chestnut to take away weight from Yngve’s words, he really cared few or nothing about his current location.

— In an alternative entrance to "Skogskyrkogården", I found it when I just came back, the bastards who guard the main entrance were denying me passage for months — he said excited pointing out a specific part of the forest, Which Thomas can’t see — Do you know why I brought you?

— No really — he assures you without giving much attention to his words, concentrating on the blond’s euphoric face, finally putting his hand on his face, exploring his skin as cold as porcelain — you are a very weird guy, surely want to steal a corpse.

— No… — he murmured to finally put his eyes on Quorthon, with a soft expression, innocent, and drugged by the snus effect — it’s because I made a tomb for you, and plan to bury your body there tonight.

The statement startled the major, he found no trace of fun in those words, obviously the minor did not joke, knew him well enough to know that. He was capable of doing that, would not shake his hand to execute it. The seconds became eternal, neither moved, and Thomas’s mind went to sleep, the fight-or-flight response turned into a total incapacity generated by the impact of not knowing what to do now. 

Per came closer, leaving his lips a few inches away. He breathed against his mouth, his body so relaxed. He had a long, thin body, if each scar was a thorn, it was a dangerous figure. Per, venous, lethal, a Venus Fly Trap, He approached him, made him tremble for his life, fear for his hands, desire his chest, his arms around his body. Pelle seemed ever closer, imposing, and he swears he would have devoured him before he started laughing, pushing him slightly.

 —That I’m kidding! I didn’t make you a grave!

Loud cry, waking up the birds, which took a night flight over their heads. The chestnut raised his gaze, noticing the animals on top of them. It was too much, with Per everything was too much, he did not get used to it, never knew who was hunting whom. Which dog knows how, the other dog.

— What happened when your parents got divorced?

Per hesitated for a few seconds to speak, but he was tired of drowning, now there was no one, only that idiot who insisted on knowing his secrets. What else did he have? , he knew that when he resigned, Quorthon would deny his words. They never met.

— My father spoke to me first, it really wasn’t such a big revelation, it was the best for everyone — he said coughing a little to finally spit even side of the car — it’s much better to have two separated, happy parents than having them together, miserable.

— I understand…

— Yes, then asked me to explain it to my brothers, they have always been more attached to me, and I was neutral in the situation. It was really hard to explain that our parents would no longer be together, they were much younger and cried. They cried so much for days that I thought of drying their tears to save the salt — he swallowed again, breathed, looked.  Looking at everything and nothing, wanting to be a bush or bird, anything but human — it’s easy to forget the feeling for a moment, when you’re distracted, talking, watching a movie, going to the park, but, when you’re alone your mind tends to betray you, you end up thinking, remembering every moment — Pelle seemed depressed, it was too late, the tranquility had made him a sad waste of man — I remember so much those days, my poor children were burned their faces from so much crying.

Thomas actually passed his arm over the shoulders of the blond, drawing his frail body into a hug that broke the cold of Per’s memories. As if his arms really possessed that ability. No heat could pull Pelle’s sadness.

 — I know Jon won’t cry, he’s a brat, he really is, immature and naive, but he’s strong…

 — You’re saying that you and Øystein are officially divorced? 

He questioned with his heart beating fast, knowing that it would not change their relationship or their feelings. He hated Per, was nasty, dirty, unsavory, his smell was foul, his mark was death, stripped of all grace or charm. What he hated most was his lack of strength to take what he wanted, like a fucking coward. In his eyes he was just a madman who was damaged, destroyed his body calling it art. Although, at that moment, under her arm, she will look like “Freya”, sweet “huldra” with a goat’s tail. He really hopes for his lips, trembling and unprotected, beautiful and fragile creature who only wanted to be worshiped. He passed his hand back over his cheek, down the chin, holding it for a while carefully, did not want to break it.

 — Yes, we have, we no longer have any kind of relationship, since that day, everything is silence.

He cleared his eyes, his face, the voice was broken in small whispers, unable to keep going. His throat was as tight as his lungs. Thomas’s restlessness was not contained, no more, he raised his face and left a soft kiss on the lips of the minor. Knew alcohol and snus, a sudden, premeditated crash, both already knew they were breaking. Per’s heart was aching, holding it steady, like a wooden puppet, his mind rejecting him, his organs too, his soul glued to that of Øystein, with his primary senses stunned. He continued, a little more between the hugs of his idol that I once loved, because although he hated it, let go, well they knew it, Per did not pursue any logic. When they separated, the question was not let wait, it was as necessary as breathing.

— Pelle, you told your little friend that everything was fine, so why do you want to cry? — He muttered with his lips still close, a claim among irritated flesh  —Had you not ended well? That both decided to take different paths?

He questioned Thomas with the minor still in his arms, wishing to crush each of his bones with his body. If I could teach him, correct him to be content to merge with him. That he did not deny with his head, that he surrendered to his will and whims as if he were a good boy.

 — No, Thomas, I have not decided, Øystein asked me to leave  — he confessed with a broken voice — Øystein told me one morning, it would be better if I returned to Sweden, that’s why I’m here again.

[diediegamchicothdie]

Heaven's on Fire

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Nacido para correr desnudo en el bosque, forzado a chambear

2/?

También disponible en AO3

Una vez había escuchado esa frase tonta, no sabía cuál frase tonta, pero en un lugar de su subconsciente debía estar alguna frase cursi, de esas que dicen los ancianos. Podría ser algo, ten cuidado con lo que deseas, elige bien tus batallas, quizás pesar antes de actuar. Si algunas de esas frases hubieran servido un par de horas antes, si hubiera entendido el peso de esas palabras no habría llegado a ese punto. Era tarde, bastante tarde, porque el espectro se presentaba otra vez ante él, aunque ahora mucho más limpio, con su cabello no perfectamente peinado en una coleta perezosa, pero se notaba que había algún tipo de esfuerzo en la acción, ropa limpia, un suéter azul marino (o quizás rey, o cobalto, no tenía delicadeza en el nombre de los colores), unos jeans bien puestos a la cadera y sin agujeros, el calzado extrañamente blanco. La imagen prolija chocaba con la naturaleza caótica del rubio quien, probablemente, nunca se había visto así mismo de esta manera. Parado sobre sus débiles piernas, ahora parecía un tipo de niño bueno, muy alejado del escenario, las luces y el olor a podredumbre. Los labios de Thomas se sintieron secos de repente, como si su alma escapara de su cuerpo, de repente su cuerpo empezaba a sentirse caliente. 

— Has llegado.

Afirmó con una aura gélida que contrastaba con el calor que empezaba subir por sus pulmones. La mirada de Thomas con propiedades afiladas como si pudiera romper el delgado cuerpo perlado al frente de su vista. Tan distinto, pero tan familiar. Per, por su parte, sacó su mano derecha del bolsillo de su pantalón jugando tímidamente con su collar, busco por un segundo las palabras, Thomas sabía que estaba luchando para insultar en lenguas.

— Sí, me diste trabajo ayer.

Señaló el menor con la mayor tranquilidad del mundo, como si fuera inocente de sus actos pasados, como si no le hubiera acosado, amenazado y más recientemente robado.

— Sí, te di trabajo ayer, pero te robaste un par de discos ayer.

Per se encogió de hombros, restando la importancia al peso de las palabras de Yngve — Tu papá es rico, seguro no le importaría un par de discos piratas faltantes — la mirada de Thomas cayó perpleja ante los ojos de Per, parecían mucho más azules que ayer — ¿Si quieres un empleado?

— Sí, si eres tan descarado trabajando como hablando a tu superior.

Per se encogió de hombros caminando nuevamente tras el mostrador. Thomas solo lo dejo pasar, haciendo espacio cerca de él, revisando las cláusulas del contrato, nada muy elaborado. Se haría cargo de las obligaciones básicas de atender, limpiar y ocuparse de la bodega. Ese deber se extendía a los días donde la jornada se alargaba para reuniones de fans de diferentes bandas o “reuniones privadas”, siendo estas últimas un nombre elegante para las fiestas de Quorthon llenas de Posers y Groupies, pero ese ya no era asunto suyo. 

El castaño notaba las respiraciones del rubio, no eran sutiles, una burla a su propio personajes que tanto se había fundido en su carácter, cada respiración le recordaba a Per que tan vivo estaba. Su carne se abría y cerraba sus costillas que seguro golpearía fuertemente contra sus pulmones y corazón, una trampa para osos en su cuerpo. En ese momento solo se preguntaba qué tan nervioso se sentiría Per en aquel ambiente ¿Sería como su primer día de colegio?, no recordaba muy bien el suyo propio, nunca le tomo mucha importancia a las instituciones educativas, ¿Al rubio le importaría el peso de la educación en Escandinavia? Otra respiración pensada se hizo presente, sus ojos se volvieron a los de Per, quien desde ahora parecía cansado, realmente no era material para empleado, pero, si hubiera querido a alguien eficiente, no le hubiera ofrecido el trabajo.

— Y firma aquí…

Finalizó en un tono de voz leve. Per asintió dejando su firma con movimientos lentos, lo entendía, seguramente él tampoco creía que ese momento fuera posible. Se sentían conectados por la incredulidad, después de una Guerra Fría extendida por un par de años, podrían volver a respirar o al menos eso espero Thomas, sabía que el rubio no era de dar su brazo a torcer. Noto la delicadeza del pecho de Per cuando se enderezó, su espalda yendo hacia atrás para luego regresar, camino un poco antes de regresar su vista a Thomas, inquisitiva. Sus dedos jugaron tímidamente entre sí, sus labios se reunieron para tocar su lengua y luego salir, Thomas comenzaba a subir su mirada al rostro pálido olvidándose un poco de su pecho, Per sabía a donde estaba mirando, no era como si le molestará, bueno, quizás le molestaba la curiosidad que le generaba, ¿Qué tanto buscaba en su pecho? Lo quería saber, porque él ignoraba que cada respiración que daba fomentaba la hoguera bajo los pies del castaño. 

 Con sus miradas fijas, el aire pesado, no hubo otra cosa más que hablar, aunque al Per siempre se le dificultara tomar la palabra — ¿Y ahora qué? 

Preguntó extrañamente sonriente, mirando el panorama, tan enorme, lleno de cosas que se sentían extrañas y familiares, cercanas y lejanas. Thomas se acercó tomándolo del hombro, solo su mano ardía ante el contacto con el menor. Esta vez se giró para verlo alzando su rostro, era extraño no ser el más alto de la habitación, debía quitarle crédito, se había estado rodeando de enanos los últimos años. La mirada era más tranquila, pero con ese algo, ese algo que sabía que era para provocarlo. Entonces señaló al sistema de música como un paso obvio en la ecuación.

— Lo primero que harás es poner música, vas a bodega, sacas algún mixtape y lo reproduces, a veces los clientes llegan antes de que esto siquiera esté limpio, así que vienes por acá — dijo tomando al menor dócilmente para que siguiera su camino, Per respondió igual de dócil que la mano que lo guiaba hasta la bodega subterránea del local— Aquí, mira — dijo prendiendo las luces del sótano — los mixtape están aquí, toda es música comercial, así que no esperes algo muy de tu estilo, por cierto, debes limpiar este lugar de vez en cuando, para que las cosas no se arruinen con el moho, ¡ah!, y si algo no está afuera, tampoco está adentro, y si no está afuera, pero está adentro ya está reservado.

— Pensé que la bodega estaba en el corredor detrás del mostrador

— No, eso lleva a tres habitaciones, mi oficina, el baño y la cocina, también prepara café, ¿Sabes hacer café?

Cuestionó ante la mirada perdida de Per quien asintió de manera mecánica para una respuesta positiva.

— Sé preparar café.

Aseguró con la misma energía curiosa, caliente, que le rodeaba en el momento.

— Genial, tú también puedes beber café.

— No me gusta el café.

La declaración no dejó indiferente al castaño que le miró extrañado — Pensé que te gustaría, te hice café esa mañana.

Recordó en un hilo de voz, pero Per solo negó con su cabeza, su rostro estaba un poco rojo, especialmente su nariz que parecía la de Rodolfo ante el sótano. Thomas pensó que Per podría iluminar la habitación con el brillo sanguíneo, pero las palabras del rubio no sonaban para nada avergonzadas o tímidas.

— Sí, lo hiciste, y me lo bebí, pero era porque lo hiciste tú, y me dio algo de vergüenza rechazarlo, pero prefiero el té.

La declaración le llegó como un golpe bajo, como si la pena que alguna vez cargo Per, ahora la llevará él mismo, pero no dijo nada al respecto, solo continuó la conversación — Entiendo, podemos conseguir té, también hay galletas y eso, por si quieres comer.

Finalizó un tono de voz tenso. Per por su parte, miro los mixtapes curioso, estaban apilados de manera muy desorganizada, no llevaban algo en especial que indicará su contenido, solo un pedazo de cinta con un número escrito sobre este. Su aspecto descuidado no dejaba nada en especial no atrayente para su exigente mirada, pero sus dedos no se contentaba en la primera opción, era un modo de autoexigencia, rápidamente acomodó las cintas, dejando los números “feos” abajo y los que le agradaban arriba, miro a Quorthon curioso y tomó él tape “22”. “22” era un buen número, se levantó con su característica teatralidad, con pasos largos hacia el reproductor de sonido, aunque los momentos eran cortos, podía jurar como se alargaban para juntarse con el dramatismo de su acción, con su pesada respiración. El acto era un deleite bajo los ojos de Thomas que se divertía ante el melodramático sufrimiento del rubio, siempre era así, debía hacer todo más grande, más dramático, más intenso de lo que realmente era. Per disfrutaba la carga emocional de llevar las cosas más simples al terreno épico, Quorthon disfrutaba de su castigo autoimpuesto, con su afilado cuerpo pesado como una daga, una espada que se agrietaba con sus pesadas respiraciones. Era curioso verlo desde arriba, tan de cerca, su esquelética mano depósito él tape dentro de la máquina, sus dedos parecían temblar cuando dio a reproducir. Los segundos en los que la música se negó a salir parecieron un sorbo de agua fría, el cuerpo tenso del rubio solo se contentó al escuchar la voz familiar de Paul Stanley en un aullido, soltó una sonrisa de satisfacción sabiendo que “22” era bueno. Dio un leve salto girando nuevamente con una expresión de satisfacción tan notoria que solo pareció un espectáculo tan surreal como el mismo chico.

Thomas se acercó nuevamente por la espalda, absorbiendo el fuego natural del frágil cuerpo. No puedo evitar notar como Per ya se preparaba para limpiar poniéndose un cubrebocas que había estado guardado en su bolsillo y unos guantes de látex negro. Tomó aire antes de hablar del elefante en la habitación — ¿No te molesta la música?

Per negó con la cabeza tomando la vieja escoba — Me encanta “Kiss”

 

Aseguró empezando con su labor. Otra vez, Thomas no se contentó mirándolo como una mirada de incredulidad, ¿Cómo se atrevía a ser tan decente hoy? — ¿Te vistes de niño bueno?, ¿Te portas bien? — comenzó a enumerar como si estuviera hablando de atrocidades cometidas por Yngve, el cual se mantenía indiferente a sus reclamos — ¡Y ahora te gusta “Kiss”! 

— Siempre me ha gustado “Kiss”, es genial, ¿Los has visto? 

La pregunta era tan genuina que parecía un golpe, Thomas solo pudo responder amargamente — ¡Sí! Si he visto a “Kiss”, pero ¿Por qué de todas las cosas en el mundo te tiene que gustar a ti?

— Mnnn, pues, son geniales, me gusta su música, la estética que tienen, creo que mezclan muy bien el concepto teatral del shock rock, como si Arthur Brown se hubiera topado con los cómics de “HORROR” o no sé, ¿Alguna vez has visto los “Cuentos de la cripta” o “Creepshow”? Algo así, pero es un bebé, el rock shock y Creepshow tienen un bebé feo, pero el bebé feo se influencia de ���David Bowie” y “New York Dolls” y piensa que si se pone maquillaje puede verse bonito.

Las palabras salían tan absurdas a la vez de apasionadas que Thomas apenas podía seguir el ritmo de la sátira de Per, ¿Por qué lo había hecho hablar? — ¿Un bebé feo escuchando a David Bowie? — ¿Por qué cuestionaba los fundamentos de la estética correcta al hombre con olor a tumba abierta? 

— ¡Sí!, el bebé tiene que ver a Bowie vestido de “Ziggy Stardust” pero escuchar a “Alice Cooper” y a “Dead Boys”, entonces encuentra el rumbo, ¡y hace canciones de sexo con sangre falsa!

La emoción en el rostro del menor no podía ser disimulada con su cabello, pero su nerviosismo se mostraba en la frenética forma de limpiar el suelo.

— Hablas como si supieras de sexo 

Thomas declaró de manera socarrona, sabía tenía que encontrar una manera de joderlo, encontrar su espina débil.

— Sé de sexo.

Qué golpe al ego fue para Thomas, el peso de la vergüenza era insoportable, un peso dentro del estómago que se extendía. Lo sentía desde su pecho hasta resto de su cuerpo, como su sangre se hubiera convertido en gasolina y las palabras de Per la chispa  necesitada para inmolarlo. Ahora solo debía admitir el mayor dolor de garganta: él fue jodido ante esa declaración.

— ¿Desde cuándo?

— Mnnn — Salió de la boca de Per, como si realmente estuviera haciendo cálculos, ¿Debía contar desde la penetración o los juegos previos contaban?, ¿Qué diferencia existía entre los dedos y una verga si su cuerpo ya había corrompido por otro?, realmente lo debatió con el suelo lleno de polvo, pero finalmente llego a una conclusión — verano del 89.

— Tú no sabías de sexo cuando te conocí.

— Son cuatro años, la gente cambia en ese tiempo, es un periodo bastante largo — murmuró, soltando otra respiración, acercando su mano, rascando su nariz sobre el cubrebocas — En estos cuatro años han sucedido cosas, ya sabes: Metallica sigue decayendo luego de la muerte de Cliff, la gente está aterrada por la estúpida película del payaso ese, y Kiss lanzó Hot in the Shade…

— Y te uniste a “Mayhem”.

Él de Quorthon murmuró corto el ambiente, su mente en llamas. Per dejo la escoba a un lado, otra vez, solo su rítmica respiración que se fundía con la música.

— Si, lo hice, pero ya tenía el puesto asegurado desde hace cinco o seis años, así que no cuenta tanto — Fijó sus ojos en Thomas, que lo miraba acusatorio, obviamente esperando una respuesta — conocí a Øystein por internet, en foros y conectamos rápido, hubiera sido raro que me rechazara conociendo nuestro historial.

— Ya veo con quién aprendiste de sexo.

Provoco nuevamente, intentando sacarlo de quicio, de pasarle la herida que quemaba en la parte inferior de la garganta. Odiaba cuando Per reía para darle la razón, con las mejillas levemente ruborizadas.

— Sí, increíble sexo con sangre y “Kiss” de fondo.

Thomas negó mirándolo de arriba abajo, con la cabeza caliente, acariciando el vidrio del mostrador, tratando de encontrar el frío, la paz gélida de su tienda. Realmente estaba intentando adaptarse a su sentimiento de extrañeza — No me puedes decir eso vestido así.

— ¿Por qué?, ¿No te gusta?, ayer le hablé a mi papá acerca de que había conseguido un trabajo y se puso muy feliz, entonces me aconsejó que usará algo más tranquilo, entonces aquí estamos, ¿Muy formal?

— No, está perfecto, ¿Dejaste que tu padre eligiese tu ropa?

— Mi papá ha tenido muchos más trabajos que yo, sabe de lo que habla, ¿no?, aparte él no me recomendaría usar una tanga de cuero.

Señalo Per encogiéndose de hombros, con la voz casual para que el comentario resonara más en la mente del tipo castaño, con el semblante amargo.

— Me veía fantástico con la tanga de cuero, ¿Qué tienes que decir sobre tu estética de muerto viviente? 

Per se giro emocionado antes la pregunta, un “¿Realmente quieres saber?”, se reflejaban en todo su cuerpo, como si fuera estallar. Bien sabían el cielo y el infierno cuando había esperado por ese momento.

— No vivo — aclaró Per rápidamente dándole una mirada severa a Quorthon, una amenaza de que no se volviera a confundir entre las implicaciones de un no vivo y un no muerto — Sobre mi apariencia, no hay mucho que decir, solo era una forma de externar mi yo interior, al principio me dedicaba mucho más tiempo a la apariencia de muerto. Mezclaba colores para hacer más precisa la apariencia, con sangre y fluidos saliendo de mi cuerpo, mi mamá no tenía idea del porqué su maquillaje desaparecía y terminaba culpaban a mi hermana — Per soltó una risa ante ese recuerdo, con un aire de nostalgia tan extraño para un hombre tan joven, este regreso al baño para sacar el trapero y reanudar su labor — Creo que la metí en problemas por eso. Me avergonzaba decirle que era yo por quién desaparecieron sus labiales y sombras de ojos — dijo con la voz bajando cada vez más, como si se esforzará en hablar, como si tuviera manos presionando sus pulmones — mi madre es bastante vanidosa, no juega con eso de la belleza, ella hacía ejercicio, pilates de Jane Fonda, ¿Conoces a Jane Fonda? Con sus leotardos ajustados, ¿Sí?, pues bueno, supongo que eso es el principio de la estética. 

La última frase salió como un leve susurro, era obvio que realmente era una confesión, aunque bastante obvio, igualmente impactante. Su respiración era tan pesada como sus confesiones, aterrizando la verdad entre los leves ruidos antes sus labios. La sola imagen del joven rubio entrando al cuarto de su madre para robar cosméticos como parte de un ritual con el cual podría completar su fase mortuoria. Era tan adorable como perturbador, aunque su mente también se iba en variantes, ¿Cómo se miraría Per con un leotardo de pilates a los Jane Fonda?, ¿Cómo se relaciona un traje de pilates femenino con la inercia de la muerte?, estaba en el infierno, necesitaba aire.

— Use esa estética principalmente en “Morbid”, pero el maquillaje no estaba lo suficientemente bien, no sé mucho de efectos especiales y todo eso — aseguró en un vaivén entre el cuarto de baño y el local principal como un péndulo parlanchín — Entonces elegí las fotos en blanco y negro, ya sabes, por el bien de la estética, ¡el gusto!

— Hablas mucho acerca de la estética.

— Pues claro, la estética es la base de la sociedad, el mundo se rodea por la “belleza”, el concepto de belleza bajo el ojo expectante, pero, es cierto que habrá un estándar deseable, por lo cual todo se rige, un instinto natural del buen gusto.

Thomas solo podía calentar su cabeza ante las palabras de Per, ¿Realmente lo había planeado tanto?, ¿Sus pantalones rasgados tenían una función estética carnal como los pequeños leotardos de pilates? 

— Me debes estar jodiendo, no puede ser que hayas pensado todo eso…

— Son conceptos básicos — esclareció Per comenzando a sentirse irritado— Todo artista se basa en la estética y sus fundamentos básicos, ¡Aunque sea instintivamente!, si no no podría ser llamado artista, debe mirar la belleza bajo la propia luz y perspectiva, no caer ante el juicio estético, el saber sobreponerse sobre, ya sabes, Marx lo llamó el capital sexual para comprender la necesidad de la belleza propuesta.

— No puede ser, ¿De dónde has sacado todo eso?

— Emmanuel Kant.

— ¿Has leído a Kant?

— Sí, he leído a Kant, a Hans Hauss, a John Ruskin, y a Nietzsche por desgracia, ¿Crees qué no puedo leer y tener pensamientos complejos?

La cuestión llenó el aire como el limpiador con olor a limón que utilizo Per para desempolvar las estanterías. Las miradas conectadas simplemente permanecían en una lucha tortuosa. Thomas no sabía qué decir, nunca vio al joven bajo esa luz, como un ser complejo, bajo la específica luz académica de la cual el rubio parecía carecer completamente de la perspicacia suficiente para formular ideas tan complejas a partir de las diminutas ropas de Jane Fonda. Y ahora no sabía que se estaba incendiando, su mente, su tienda o la cara del menor, que, conociendo su naturaleza psicótica, podría llenar de fuego real todo el lugar. Miro los delgados labios moverse, en palabras que parecían gritos, ráfagas de metano de su tono bajo.

— Tú… ¡Tú realmente crees que no sé leer!

— No, solo no pensé que no te interesaría eso, tú, bueno, corres por ahí con la cara pintada de blanco y le mandas animales sacrificados a la gente.

Per negó con la cabeza lentamente, sin despegar sus ojos firmes del cuerpo alto que parecía temblar. Junto a una respiración aún más fuerte, golpeó la pared con la palma abierta de su mano — ¡No!, no eres capaz de ver más de lo obvio, ¿cierto? — se acercó lentamente a Thomas bajando su tapa bocas hasta su mentón. Este le miró con los ojos abiertos, seguro de que esté le iba a saltar a la garganta — Claro, para ti es muy fácil dejar la pose de vikingo a penas sales del estudio de grabación o en el concierto, realmente no lo sientes.

— ¡Lo siento!

Se defendió torpemente, sin ver cambio en la postura tan firme del otro.

— No lo sientes…, porque eres decepcionante, mi padre me puedo haber elegido la ropa hoy, pero no ha elegido ni mis acciones ni mi carrera como el tuyo…— Quorthon miraba el fuego en su mirada, su pecho que subía y bajaba, como una bomba a punto de explotar. La mano cubierta de látex negro fue directamente imponiéndose ante el mentón de Thomas, apretándolo en sus dedos cuál prensas — Yo realmente creo en esto, fuera y dentro de la escena, porque no actúas lo que vives, ni lo que transmites, el artista jamás será capaz de dejar su obra que vive parasitando sus sueños. Yo estoy muerto independiente de mi condición o lugar.

— ¿Por qué Dead? 

Se atrevió a cuestionar poniéndose de puntillas tratando de huir del agarre estúpidamente fuerte de Per, ¿Cómo alguien tan delgado podría poseer tanta fuerza?, realmente su existencia no se adaptaba a la lógica, por eso debió comprender que era momento de adaptarse a las respuestas del menor.

— ¿Por qué Jane Fonda en un leotardo apretado?, es sexy, la muerte es sexy, seductora, ¿No?…

Murmuró Yngve acercándose cada vez más a él, dominante, furioso, pero sin una pizca de duda o de respeto hacia Quorthon. El último sabía que era su culpa, había abierto las puertas del paraíso festivo de su tienda hacia la blasfemia hecha hombre. No importaba si Per hoy se veía como un chico de claro de iglesia, había nacido con la marca de la muerte, no podía controlarlo. Por su culpa el cielo se había incendiado, ahora solo podía asimilarlo, subió sus manos hasta la huesuda cadera de Per, con intenciones de ahuecarlas. Lamentablemente, estaban trabajando, eso se notó, porque la puerta se abrió haciendo sonar la campana de entrada. 

Per se giró instintivamente caminando hacia el cliente con una sonrisa amplia, alejándose tan rápido como llegó para ahora acosar al cliente, mirando encima de su cuello. Thomas solo camino hasta su despacho sin decir mucho, escuchando las voces volverse débiles a la distancia con un “Nueva administración” por parte de Per. Definitivamente, le había prendido fuego al cielo, ahora solo podía lidiar con ello.

[diediegamchicothdie]

DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU GOT (Till It's Done)

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Warning: Child abuse/Psychotic episode

4/?

Also available in AO3!!!

Pelle kept his gaze fixed on the wooden ceiling, as if it had all the answers he needed, although it is the background of consciousness already knew what to do. He had thought about it for so long, there was a truth: he could not calm his heart with half-answers, he wanted everything, that was his curse, he was so greedy. If he could do something better he would have done it, but people like him: poor bastards who were born with death inside, unfortunately, no matter how much they try, are not made to work. He lay down, unwilling to do anything about his back pain, stabbing his lungs as if burning. With his thin body glued to the mattress, smelling Thomas, as he hated that smell, it made him want to vomit, everything smelled like him, and, even if he tried to ignore it was logical, it was his home. To his disgrace, he was not yet accustomed to that home, felt strange, alien, suffocating. Everything smelled of its perfume, from the entrance to his sheets, no matter how many times he will wake up in his sheets, was nothing but a stranger. At that time he could only analyze his situation, He understood it. Pelle, he understood it already, his body had left the smell of Norway, the shelter, the forest, the bed of Øystein, those memories looked distant, clear that his mind had reached that conclusion, was not silly, simply. He did not accept it, did not know how to go on with the punctured lungs and broken wings.

Now he was lying down, smelling of Thomas’s perfume: smelling of the brand of coffee that Thomas drank every morning, smelling of the cigarettes that Thomas used to smoke compulsively, the retouching of Jack Daniel's that Thomas drank in the evenings of creative blocking in the air. Everything was him, he could not escape, just face it while watching him enter through the door, with his cup of tea. He did not want to get up, his body was still aching to respond, and the kindness of the elder gave him a kind of bitterness. Thomas understood, in those months he had learned more than anything else about Pelle in those months. He approached Pelle, stroking his head, leaving the cup on the night table, he sat next to the blond without saying anything, did not feel the need to do so at that moment. Venom kept ringing in the background at the request of the minor, really liked that accompanied the noise of cars on the street, the atmosphere was comfortable, quite familiar. So close together, touching their skins at the slightest proximity, the elder took an opportunity to take a cream to apply it on the right arm of the blonde who looked at him with curiosity.

— What is that?

He questioned Pelle as he sat in bed, stretching out on the navy blue sheets, half sitting with his back against the head, but not taking his arm from Thomas' hands, watching carefully as his fingers played with his skin.

— It’s an oil cream you see, and I don’t know what else, I went to a naturist shop the other day — he explains climbing on top of the mattress, leaving aside my right arm completely anointed to take now the other appendage of the blonde — one of the ladies who work there, told me it was good at wiping out scars, I’ve noticed yours are already healed.

— The other night, I noticed that my younger brother came into my room - he started to explain in a whisper, as if he was telling him a shameful secret, a school gossip — surely he thought he was asleep, by the sleep-aid" or something, he pulled up my sweater sleeves and started counting them.

He admitted in a low voice, as if he were a small child overcome by the consequences of his actions, a kind of murmur that carried with his sorrows. Thomas did not fully understand his guilt, although he was getting used to the mark of shame of Pelle, he carried it on his face as original sin. He seemed to him a kind of daughter of "Freya" with sad eyes, he got into his soul trying to eat everything inside. How can you hate and love the same person? , he would like to know the answer, divide the blonde into parts: he wouldn’t say that "Dead" and Pelle were different people, opposite personalities, at all, it would be stupid to say something like that. From his perspective, "Dead" was only the escape to fantasy for Pelle, who compensated the fears of the blond. Someone immune, evil, cruel, a creature of the night that would not fall to the excess of human feelings that kept with so much terror inside his chest.

— Surely you do not want to count more — he said in a low voice imitating the whisper of Pelle then receive a head denial by the minor — it’s okay, if you applied it twice a day will begin to disappear, it is a matter of time, the good thing about you being so pale is that healthy scars are easily concealed.

The chestnut tree was reassured, with his soft voice, had learned many things from Pelle during those months: he hated many things, each more ridiculous than the previous one, he kept a pitched war with Norwegian television and Kermit the fucking frog, but not everything was bad. He had learned how much Pelle valued the art, aesthetics, and beauty of "Kubin" and "Goya," loud music, quiet places, the smell of freshly brewed black tea, bulk candy he bought on a few streets of "HeavySound" and kept in his pants pockets. He was contradictory, impulsive, loving sleeping in coffins and refusing to listen to "Bauhaus" at his side, wishing for warmth with a cold mind, being the most human undead. Furthermore, he must have understood quickly that Pelle looked at life in death, with his precious body like the "Guernica" of Picasso: the scars dissecting his body like a patchwork quilt, the imprecise cuts speak drawn on his skin a trace of irregular geometric shapes. He found peace by running his fingers through the scars, moisturizing his skin with the cream that left a refreshing trail in his path, distracted by his marks.

In the eyes of Thomas, Pelle was a modern-day Frankenstein, had destroyed so much of his body that it now appeared to be made up of different parts of different people. The cuts had become so deep that their healing would be impossible, they looked like deep purple thread crops that were lost in one section of flesh and reappear in another. His arms and legs were the most affected part, but he could tell that there was no clean part of his body except for hands and face, even his long neck had suggestive though subtle cuts. To lay his hands on his flesh was a disgusting experience. It was nothing but flesh and bones, a sack of human waste that made cute moans with every touch. He hated to admit how erotic was the sickly body of Pelle, constantly thought that it would look better with a few extra pounds, but his body so receptive to its touch, ready for all pleasure. He felt him shiver every time he climbed up his chest, accelerating his breathing, Pelle’s eyes opened wide looking at his face as if to make sure it was really him.

— I’m so tired…

Pelle, with his body broken down, had reason to be, he had worked so hard these last days, was a good employee, came in early, cleaned up, attended them and finished his academic load at leisure, At night he would come home or return to Thomas’s apartment to continue working on his portfolio. With his mostly stable mind, he had made the incredible discovery: Pelle was a good boy when he wasn’t insulting and beating his body on the back, he was incredibly nice when he wasn’t looking for dead animals in the cart or the garbage. Thomas knew he wanted more, that those acts of affection melted him like a dog, were few, but addictive, conditioned such a Pavlov’s dog, could desire his heat, but never chase it, still kept his pride as firm as possible. He approached leaving a kiss on the neck feeling the bitter taste of lotion and then distanced himself applying the greenish solution on his belly, touching the only mark that made the blonde feel uncomfortable: a large incision running from the side of his left navel to the beginning of his pelvis, arranged as an inclined diagonal line of bright reddish color. Still fresh despite its age, that scar stood proudly on the skin of milk, capricious to the disgust of its owner who detested it. Quickly, Pelle walked away, releasing a noise of discomfort, as if he had burned him, his eyes closed his eyes with terrible disgust.

— Did it hurt?

He asked in a low voice, trying not to upset the minor, who was writhing under his touch, the blonde seemed desperate for a moment. Until something made a connection in his brain, a type of synapse that leads him to deny with his head to put back his body totally straight on the mattress, in an act of determination.

— Okay, you can touch it, don’t push me away.

He promised to then raise his arm above his head, leaving exposed his undernourished torso, raising his hip towards the sky, playing with his long hair stirred between his pale hands. Thomas did not hesitate to continue passing layers of cream through his torso, insisting on the lower abdomen, passing his pulp through the beginning of his bony pelvis, sinking his fingers in the sides near his member without touching directly.

— What’s bothering you about this scar? Not worse than the others — he said with his fingers going up and down, to finally finish giving a circular massage on the mark that ran through much of her lower abdomen — but it’s okay if you’re not ready to say it.

— It is the only scar that I have not done by my own hand, so I do not like to see or touch — explained Pelle annoyed of his own medical intervention, looking at the ceiling with disgust, crossing his hands as "San Sebastián" under the arrows bath with the terrible disgust of his corrupt body — the surgeon had no fucking idea of medicine, damn worthless, left me that scar shit, does not fit with the others, I hate it.

Thomas nodded kindly and then leaned down to his side, putting the blond against his chest, warming skin on skin, stroking his head giving small circles on his scalp. A comfort, a tender gesture for the mind so afflicted of the blond, who was huddled in his chest, he took a breath, twisted and turned to then put his face in the neck of the major. Thomas was comfortable, wide, still not used to the change of position, until then Pelle had always been the biggest, who let his chest serve as a bed and his arms as sheets. It was rare to be the smallest person, to be treated delicately, as if he were a kind of flower, had never been a flower, could not be, did not get used, could not get used to Thomas’ love.

Looked sadly at his brown hair, because he knew: hated it, could not bear it. Really did not care how many days he woke up in his bed, the attentions that gave him, the time they spent together as a couple of old friends just found, felt something they did not develop. Under the pale eyes of Yngve he would never be øystein, was an idiot, himself was the person most hated in the world. The recurring thought that he had to learn to live with it had been in his mind since his last day at "HenHouse", but it was as hard as holding your breath. His hand was placed on Thomas’s cheek, given small strokes are his thumb over his tanned flesh, then split and take the cup of tea. Thomas understood, got up from bed to put the vinyl of "Long Cold Winter" on the turntable and then back to bed, receiving the look of reproach from Pelle.

— Ugh, I hate that album.

He expressed firmly by taking small sips of tea, while his face wrinkled excessively, like a vampire in the sun.

— Your sister loves it, it can’t be so bad — he said annoyingly, taking Pelle by the waist to sit on him, while he pressed him against her lap refusing to release him — you can’t say that your sister has bad taste, is your little sister — he assures in a sharp tone to annoy the blond who seemed irritated — and already almost begins the winter, it looks good.

— Winter is almost here — with the expression upset and slightly trembling body repeated the minor in a low voice stroking the porcelain between his fingers, could no longer bear it, taking courage, it was so hard to be honest, being silent is like lying — Thomas, remember when we started talking online? , you used to say so many good things.

Thomas swallowed with difficulty, trembling at that comment, but he was stubborn, refused to let his hand, which kept stroking the inside thigh of the blond. Though his heart was stopped, which wanted to come out of his chest. Cornered, with the sad look of Pelle on his face, he understood what he meant, nodded his grip, it was really time to talk.

— Yeah, I was really drawn to the fact that you cut my band name all over your body, and I thought you were just fucking around, but you really did.

He murmured head low, not willing to look at him, ashamed of his actions. Understood that feeling of wishing the earth would swallow it, only disappear in a hidden place on the planet, because to be honest he did not repent, not even in the slightest.

— Yeah, I made you curious, didn’t I?

He asked with complete curiosity, his gaze had not a shred of reproach or anger in the words, these were bathed in the genuine interest of revealing that truth. He needed it, he needed it more than ever, because on the words of Thomas would depend on his acting.

— Yes, when I saw your email I was shocked, I could not believe it was real, I assumed that it was just a kind of joke in bad taste, but the more photos you sent… , I knew it wasn’t a joke, so, I really wanted to know what kind of psychopath was capable of doing that, and I don’t know, it became addictive talking to you, it was morbid — he explains with grief his own actions, I knew, he was an idiot, but I couldn’t shut up his memory and pretend it was okay — I felt morbid for you, how such a beautiful boy could do what you do, I never understood it, but I wanted to see you, to know if you were real.

— Am I real now?

He replied Pelle with a lost look, feeling strangely devastated by the answer he was waiting for, sad by what he wanted. Now Thomas nodded slowly, stroking his cheek, in a comfort to his gaze lost among the wall decorations and vinyl.

— You are, you’re terribly real, so much that you hurt — he stood in silence for a while, stroking Pelle’s cheek, holding him a little more, I just wanted to do it for a little longer — I was an idiot with you, you were a kid, you were 17 when I started asking you all those things, Obviously you were going to do it, you were a kid.

Pelle shook her head, squeezing the skin against the skin until it burned — at 17 I wanted to kill me I felt no motivation or desire for anything, when you asked me all that, made me feel attractive, desired hastily in a strange way, not for death, nor the public, not… You really wanted me, wanted my body, made me so happy that you wanted my body — he slowly got up, strangely theatrical way to the window to make his revelation in front of the sunlight, opening his arms and legs wide, as if it were a kind of sculpture, trying to emphasize each wound and scar, like a trophy. — At that time, no one had said that nobody was beautiful, that you said it, it was very important to me, you really wanted this, you’re sick.

Thomas swallowed, took the sheet and stood up, with his timid hands reaching for the minor, carefully covering his slim figure who mocked him with shame, almost ironic of his past actions, this was the trail of shame of Pelle. Pelle who looked at him confused, almost hurt by what he was doing, was leaving him like an infant in the snow, as he hated to see the uncertainty in his eyes.

— Don’t you think my body is beautiful anymore? — He felt about to cry, with a thousand doubts in his mind that it was not good enough for him? , his thin body and paper skin wasn’t enough, he was ugly, he knew it, he didn’t want to hear it — What’s wrong with me? , I’m not fat or unpleasant, I’m easy to carry, my body can smell like death but not sweat like Kristiansen, he unpleased me, really does it, but his body repels me — explained hugging the cloth against his figure, trembling, as if trying to consume himself on his belly. —I feel that all fat people smell of sweat and fat, I do not like fat people, I am disgusted, I can not be as unpleasant as a picture of “Botero”.

The chestnut shrugged his head, taking him out of the bedroom. The air was so heavy, difficult to breathe, difficult to walk, everything with the blond was hard, but he had accepted it with all his difficulty. As soon as they arrived in the living room, Pelle collapsed on the couch, trembling, he looks back at the ceiling, out of it, like a patient of rage. He writhed, in screams that came out of his throat.

— Pelle, don’t talk like that and less about your friend — he rebuked in an almost paternal tone, it’s not as if that revelation surprised him, maybe the surprise is that Pelle had taken a while to admit his thoughts — I don’t cover you because you’re ugly, very beautiful, beautiful as a flower of "Fólkvangr" — consoled her by stroking her hair, squeezing it against her body, in a warm embrace that lasted for a few moments. The same moments that lasted his lips on his forehead, until he decided to get up with direction to the kitchen — I will prepare breakfast, we will eat and feel better, yes?

Thomas walked to the kitchen, making scrambled eggs with toast and jam. By which time he had no desire to cook more on the plate, he was not a genius in the kitchen, but it was decent enough, and Pelle had been eating his meal for the last month. He approached the blond nervous, hated to see him in his psychotic state, it was as if he brought out the worst of himself. Not born to care, thought that by not feeding the harmful behaviors of Pelle could remain stable until he accepted psychiatric help. It was impossible to control someone as stubborn and stubborn as the blond, sitting, huddled on himself, looking at the food with disgust. He raised his watery eyes to Thomas, who sat down beside him and stroked his cheek.

— Eat some food, drink some water, and we can keep talking about this, okay?

The latter was a rhetorical question, he knew he would disagree, that he would stick to it, with that tone of voice he used when he didn’t want to do something. He recognized that Pelle was too fragile, more by guilt than love, and felt responsible for his present state, although he knew that he should not, because that was life. Carefully put a piece of toast to the mouth of the blond, who turned his head and whispered, "don’t force me". Even with that refusal, he did not stop, insisted on the food, begging to keep some normality in the routine they had kept since the beginning of last summer. Thomas needed Pelle stable, like the calm man he knew, not the one who writhed and spat under his body.

The blond, he writhed like a worm, with his mouth tight, trying to get as far away from food as he could. He cried and lamented, didn’t want that, really disgusted, the smell of fresh food, condiment, all gathered, wanted to vomit, would die if he got something into his digestive system. It was a lost fight, Thomas was much stronger, bigger, but he didn’t give up, fought against the chestnut as best he could, didn’t want him to touch it, scared, terrified by his power over him. He was fighting with his life, his hands were knocking unconscious on the face of the elder, scratching the exposed parts that reached with his fingers claw, ending up hanging from his lips. The chestnut, tired of the situation, held Pelle under his body, laying the child on the floor, to end up sitting on his chest. His eyes were in an eternal battle, neither of them was going to give way, and although Pelle’s blue orbs were already full of tears and unruly, that would not stop Thomas. The determined elder took a spoonful of egg and bit the toast, chewed for a moment, analyzing what he was about to do, was this really going to be done? He had already come this far, could not retreat, taking strength to execute the next step. He took the minor to push the old display case toward the balcony railing. The light of day received both men out of their, under the mist of confusion, the adrenaline was stronger than any drug. The glass reflecting the dim light of day, the cold of October was upon them, soaking their skin. There was no joy in destruction until his eyes connected, when they relaxed by letting loose the useless piece of rotten wood and stained-glass. Millions of shards of glass covered the street asphalt, filling with car alarms that consumed the peace of the kindly moved apartment building. Pelle laughed loudly, collapsing on the balcony, Thomas followed him, both hugged, gathering their skins in the fury of their bodies, with the blonde feeling free finally free.

— I also hated that fucking furniture — assure the major, looking up at the sky as he passed his fingers through Pelle’s head, finally found peace in his home — but I don’t know what we’re going to do with that furniture.

— Your dad’s rich, he can do something.

Pelle assured him, taking the matter seriously, receiving a spanking from Thomas in retaliation, as he hated that kind of annoying claims on Pelle’s part. He knew that he hated his father and would do everything possible to complicate his life, although sometimes he said what he thought of his father.

— Just because my dad is financially sound doesn’t mean he has to take care of this.

— Being well financially is that you can pay the bills at the end of the month and you over something, but you are not that, you both are rich — he said approaching his chest lying down in the skin from which came some thin blond hairs — but, you will not see it, I know, Øystein told me about guys like you, I didn’t understand why? , because you made me look forward to the contract, I thought it would be for sex, but you knew I’d spread your legs if you asked.

Thomas heard the statement, quite upset by that speech he decided to move away from the blond for a moment, sitting on the balcony, hugged his knees, squeezing them with restrained fury, one day he was going to kill Per.

— You always talk about the idiot Øystein — he rebuked him in a low voice, releasing his left hand to squeeze the flesh of the minor, sticking his nails into the flesh, leaving reddish traces on his inner thigh — what has he got? , why can’t you just forget him?

Questioned wounded by the attitude of Pelle, really heavy, as his breaths the difficult to carry, impossible to understand, damn picture of Picasso.

— Øystein really loves me — he began to tell the blonde, hugging his body awkwardly, playing with the scars of his tummy, passing the tips of his fingers through each mark. As if he could sink into the feeling so nostalgic that they kept their guts — I lied when I said that Norway was hell, it wasn’t, it was the sweetest place, I care so much…

— How? Your body’s so hurt, it doesn’t look like he did a great job.

Asked Thomas puzzled, his irony was natural in the face of grief. Neither the face nor the voice nor the damaged mind of Pelle gave logic to his thought, but his smile did not deceive him. He was telling the truth, perhaps it was the first time that he was completely honest, How can they take care of you in destruction?

— I did this to myself, at first I agreed, they were light cuts, I kept it theatrical, but then I made an incredible discovery: there are places in Asia where people do really crazy things, there is vegetarian festival in Thailand, it’s called "Phuket", people are going through his face with knives, swords, and all sorts of things —story as I took a piece of glass from the ground, staring at it against the light, trying to analyze the shape of the object — we were fascinated, both defined ourselves as world people, very unpatriotic, we wanted to go everywhere, know the world together, always love Romania, specifically for Transylvania, I want to live in Transylvania — added with playful tone, squeezing the back of his nose, smiling wide to show the gum as he always did. — He wanted to give a tour of the communist countries, instead, I was excited about the idea of visiting Latin America, but knowing that from Thailand, I don’t know, was understanding pain through passion, martyrs perhaps — he murmurs thoughtfully, burying the glass between his fingers, feeling the skin slightly tear — I already knew Marina Abramović’s work, although I am not a fan of her, but that particular play where she was paralyzed for hours and let people do whatever they wanted with her body, they cut it, and they stuck thorns in it, according to a madman who pointed a gun at her, "Rhythm 0" I think it’s called — he whispered the shrapnel through the back of his hand — but we wanted to do it like the first, pain by passion, cathartic, hate being the center of attention, but with each cut, I really felt that my message was understood, They had as much passion for my music as I feel it, strong, as if it will come to life from inside me, I gave them my blood, I really liked it.

— If you agreed from the beginning, what made you change your mind?

Asked Thomas, visibly disturbed by his creative vision of Pelle, who was able to sink into misery by passion. Perhaps no one could see things from Pelle’s perspective. No one, like those who passed under his feet, the people who couldn’t see them from the Penthouse, who piled up below them, noticing their mess, were going to fall down. But who would support Pelle?

— At first Øystein was fine, he healed my wounds after each show, after every relapse, but it went further, I didn’t settle for little…, sometimes fantasized about dying on stage — he admitted throwing the shrapnel off the balcony, wishing that some of those gossip-mongers would fall on his head under his ass — Øystein was my biggest confidant, I tried to hide things from him, but he always found out, then I was out of options and went with him, and we talked for hours, we never bored, it’s ridiculous to say that you open your heart, but I think I did it with him.

— Does he know we slept together that night?

He asked with a mixture of fear and curiosity, holding a strong pain in his lower belly, feeling the taste of betrayal at the bottom of his throat, clenching his fists hard, waiting for the impact. Then Pelle shrugged slowly as he threw little pieces of glass down the balcony.

— No, I wanted to play that it was my first time, I was good, I put myself as he wanted, I obeyed his whims, held him in my arms, hit his ass and bit his neck, he pulled my hair, we scream like animals, even if we did terrible, and in the end, there was no trace of our unmarked bodies — he smiled foolishly again, as if he could still hold him — I wanted, at that moment I wanted to believe that no one had touched me, just like I did with you.

Revealed in a lower voice, his soul opened, painful, bleeding, now that he looked at his pain so closely, he questioned whether he was ready to know it. Thomas swallowed, knew he was not well, he hears the patrol arrive, panic run in his blood like morning caffeine, familiar terror were the sunken eyes of his lover, approaching the entrance. He knows surely would talk to the manager of the place, then they would call his father and he would be fucked. That looked so small compared to Pelle with his sad eyes, with the dread of reality.

— Who was the first?

He asks as a kind of taboo, a question to which he did not want to know the answer, but still, stupidly concrete.

— What did you do in '83?

— I start "Bathory".

He replied with simplicity, felt the balcony tremble, they were really going to fall.

— I was 14 in the 83, it was December, before "Yule", I remember because it was cold, but still had to go to school, hated — murmured looking at the sky, undisturbed by the consequences of his actions, the screams could wait — there was a group of bastards in my class, they were shouting that I had my mother’s face, my mother is so beautiful, those damned used to hit me or similar things, I held it, because I’m such a pussy to hold it all, until that day, I was cornered in a secluded place, I don’t remember where, it must not have been far from school, they held me by hands and feet, there were several, I wanted to fight, really wanted to, but I couldn’t do anything, I was weak, I couldn’t help myself. They tore my clothes off with a piece of glass, it was horrible, I was so afraid, Thomas, afraid so much that I didn’t even scream, I closed my eyes, I wanted to think I wasn’t there, but I was, with my ass ripped and pissing on me like a coward — he murmured wounded, running his fingers through his legs — The motherfuckers won’t even use their own penises, it was something cold, maybe a metal rod, I don’t know, they choked me while I did it, I despair, hyperventilate, didn’t know what to do, ate too much snow, At some point I died with my face against the snow.

The silence grew for a moment, with Pelle humming the melody of "sacrifice" with a slight smile, the tune comforting him, as if it gave him back his life.

— It was the worst period of my life, when I died I felt so much peace, I did not want to return…— explained head down, then hold Thomas' hand between his fingers, clenching his knuckles — the months in the hospital were shit, I didn’t want them to touch me, the psychologists were even more shit, they didn’t know how to treat me the fucking bastards, When I came out, my family didn’t know what to do to cheer me up, I didn’t know either… One day my father came with a lot of "tapes", I think he left the store empty and there was yours, it was my favorite, I listened for hours, I hate you, you inspired me to make music.

— Glad to hear that, I really like "Morbid," I do…

— Don’t say it out of pity, I never told this to Øystein because he would look at me with his big watery moonlight eyes, he’s so sweet, he’s Sami, you know? , I think he has very tender features so — the blonde with his head rejecting his own comment —I sound like a racist bastard, he would hug me saying that he wished he was there to take care of me, that I would never let something like this happen again. — He explained irritated by his own words, as if he wanted to rip them out of his mouth — I love Øystein, that’s horrible now, because I’m a bit in love with you, isn’t that fucked. I really like you even though you’re an idiot — he murmurs staring at Thomas, who was silent, unable to process so much — Øystein is also an idiot, who in this fucking plan cares about capital? , maybe my type is the bald idiot. Øystein loved me, but when we ended up in the damn house in the woods everything collapsed, Jørn got his ugly girlfriend pregnant for not knowing how to use a condom, and Jan is a fucking brown neo-Nazi alcoholic.

He complained strongly beating in mourning, reliving a laugh by Thomas, who could not control the absurdity of the situation, reliving the tense atmosphere that had formed,

— Ugly girlfriend and brown neo-Nazi?

Pelle quickly joined the laughter by covering his mouth with his right hand - his girlfriend is hideous, although she’s from the family. Her mom is also ugly, and Jan. I think he’s a bit self-conscious not being 100% Norwegian, if you understand me. Then he wants to join just the group of people who want to get rid of crosses like him, really an idiot.

— Pelle, now you’re really convincing me that Norway is hell.

— A bit yes, I lived in a decrepit car and a half-burnt shelter where they stole my Dracula comics, we were very screwed financially, that delayed us too much, I started to get depressed, more, much more, no longer wanted to do anything, did not get out of bed —- he remembered upset, as if he wanted to jump off the balcony — you can’t live on love, we started to distance ourselves, everything that made me irritated, his voice, the smell of his room, his stupid communist theories, I also irritated him, I know, he hurt me on purpose, not only because I hate myself, but because it alarmed him, when he was leaving he threatened to kill me, he would really do it, he stopped me on 5 different occasions, but he continued, at the beginning of this year our relationship was already completely broken, we didn’t want to leave each other, but we were hurting — he clean his nose slightly, tried not to cry, he didn’t like being seen in that state, but he had decided to talk — in the last few months we didn’t even touch each other, we just fought, I managed to sleep, and he went shooting in the woods to fuck me. He was doing something good for the band, and I was ruining it on purpose… what immature idiots, once I heard him say that if he wanted to kill me he would kill me, that I wouldn’t care anymore. I don’t blame him, I’m very hard to love, and I touch his limit — he assures embarrassed. He knew it was his fault because the circumstances were bad, but he could have been better, but I had no ability to do it, that’s why he hated himself — that day my father came to visit, talk to me, when I was about to leave to pick him up, Øystein stopped me, asked me not to come back anymore, that if my father was there he would take advantage of going home, I think… At that moment really broke my heart, how stupid, right?. No matter how much we argue, in the end we meet again, swear that everything is fine, that we could get over it, to separate was torture, but knowing that he really didn’t want me there anymore… He didn’t get over it, I’m still waiting for his call, that he comes to visit my house, fantasize that he’s better now, and we’ll do better this time. In my mind I say that if he asked I’d run to Norway again, but I don’t want to go back.

Thomas ran his arm over Pelle’s hip, helping him up, he heard the footsteps from the entrance, his father’s voice, he knew they were on top of them, but they still looked so insignificant. He had one question, the last.

— What kind of man did Øystein tell you I was?

He murmured in contrast to the strong blows on the wood, his father’s angry voice, the police whispering. They could wait, just a moment while Pelle ended laughing at the answer that took a few moments to reveal, just a little more…

— A bourgeois.

[princess-lvcifer]

[princess-lvcifer]

te iubesc

eurodead • 2K • viking AU • fluff

"Dear friend," said the count rising from his seat at the long wooden table and raising his tankard, looking at his guest and the reason for the evening's banquet, "it has been a pleasure to meet you and learn from you. It fills me with sadness that you are leaving, it seems like only yesterday that you arrived and I assure you that you will be missed here. May your exploration in Vinland be prosperous and may the Gods assist you," he nodded with understanding and gratitude for his words. "To Øystein the Fortunate, son of Aarseth!" he shouted raising his mug even higher, and all present except the aforementioned mimicked him in saying the same. Then they all raised their mugs to their lips.

As he took a sip from his tankard Øystein looked straight ahead, where sat his good shaman friend, a Romanian once enslaved and freed by him, with blue eyes like his own and long blond hair. Realising that he was looking at him he looked at him too, connecting their eyes in a quick glance. They acted expressionless, but both understood each other: they were holding back laughter.

They had been at the court of Count Greifi Grishnakh for some time, at his request. And who were they to refuse an invitation from a count? He claimed to practice sorcery and divination and admitted to defeating his enemies by magic, which many considered an act of cowardice and dishonesty. The count was dishonest, not because he used magic to defeat his enemies but because it was obvious to someone like Pelle, the shaman of Øystein, that he didn't really have such powers. They quickly realised that he was a poser, in many ways. He imitated Øystein and Pelle alike, and it seems that the only one who didn't realise how ridiculous he was was himself. So insecure that he always wore his crown on his head to remind people of who he was, along with his long braids. He was a two-faced man with no clear ideas, bloodthirsty for no reason and eager for attention and approval, especially from Øystein, whom he admired because he wanted to be like him — a man who actually did something interesting and worthwhile with his life by exploring unknown lands, courageous and determined, loved and respected by all his servants for his intelligence and kindness. A good leader, a good man.

Unlike him, Øystein was no fool and even if he didn't think well of him, he knew that Greifi was a man best to have on his side. He would smile at him whenever he had to, and this was one of those times.

"Thank you very much Your Highness, you are very kind," he said raising his mug. "You move me with your words. We will miss you too," a tap on his foot caught his attention and he couldn't help but smile even wider, holding back his laughter as he tapped the man opposite him in return.

The next day he sailed back to his homeland, where the following day he would disembark with Aarseth, Pelle and a crew of 35 men he had assembled to sail on a ship he had bought. The voyage was to be an expedition to Vinland, a land his father had discovered long ago. In the end his father gave up the idea of accompanying him after he fell off his horse on the way to the harbour, an incident he interpreted as a bad omen.

"Everything will be fine," Pelle assured Øystein in a confident and reassuring tone when he asked if he should abandon the idea of going to Vinland. And while in a way Pelle made him lose his mind, he also helped him come to his senses when he needed it most.

At the port they said goodbye to their loved ones: parents, sisters, wives, children... Pelle couldn't say goodbye to anyone, not because he was far from his homeland but because all his loved ones were on the ship, accompanying him. He wasn't married and said he was quite sure that he didn't even have any bastard children. He was aware that in that society, a rural and agricultural culture, it was necessary to have offspring to secure his future, but that mattered little to him: now that he was free at last to live his life as he wished he would never be with someone he didn't love, he wanted no children, he didn't mind dying (which would make him a great viking if he had the right physique) and if he needed someone to look after him it would be someone from the community, probably a daughter of his beloved Øystein, or even himself.

Following his father's route, they docked first at a rocky and desolate place his father called Helluland. Then he docked a second time at a wooded place his father called Markland. After two more days at sea, he landed on an island to the north, and later they finally disembarked at their destination, in a green area with a mild climate and abundant salmon stocks.

They were completely alone, there were no other humans in the area and Pelle said there were no spirits either, and they found wheat that they planted themselves and maple trees with blood-red leaves, among other foods that mother nature had to offer. When they returned to Norway they would load their ship with samples of these newly found goods.

When the crew disembarked and explored the area, it didn't take them long to find the settlement his father had built years before with his men: damp, dusty huts. They tidied them up and cleaned them until they were habitable again.

Este din nou noapte

Noapte, tu frumoasă

Îmi satisfac foamea

Pe oamenii vii

Noapte de foame

Urmează-i chemarea

Urmează luna înghețată

It was a full moon night and Pelle was sitting cross-legged by the fireplace in the little hut he lived in with Øystein, singing in whispers in his native language while he watched the dancing flames with rapt attention and stroked Øystein's head, who was lying on the floor with his eyes closed and using his legs as a pillow. He couldn't be more relaxed, couldn't be better, couldn't be happier.

When he opened his eyes he leaned his neck a little to get a better look at his friend, who had fallen silent, probably tired of singing. Though upside down, he looked at his beautiful face illuminated by the flames and raised his dominant hand to caress his cheek, drawing his attention.

"You have bewitched me," Øystein said quietly. And he wasn't the only one in their circle who ever thought of it. Pelle might have done it to earn his freedom long ago, but what sense would it make to do such a thing to stay with his former master?

"I have done no such thing," he said confidently, smiling though a little confused at such a sudden comment, placing his hands on his cheeks and leaning back to get close to his face, brushing it with the tips of his golden hair, "why would I do that?" he asked as Øystein removed his hand from his cheek, placing it back on the ground.

"I don't know, but I don't care. I'm grateful, even," Pelle laughed and Øystein smiled even wider as he locked his eyes on the shaman's smiling lips.

He knew he could look as long as he didn't touch, but he wanted nothing more than to merge his body with his, even if it was just a short kiss. Even though he knew it was impossible because of the position they were in, he forced his forearms and leaned his back, shoulders and neck to get even closer to him, brushing the tips of their noses together.

"How do you say 'I love you' in your language?" asked the scout, now in a more serious tone that infected the shaman. "Tell me," he begged.

"...Te iubesc."

"Te iubesc," he repeated.

Pelle released his face and slid his legs back, getting up as he said they should go to sleep now. Øystein dropped to the floor, slumped but happy, savouring the moment as he brought one of his forearms to his forehead, staring at the ceiling. The shaman went to a small wooden table they had to get a vase of water and pour some on the fire, putting it out.

As winter was approaching, Øystein decided to camp there for a few months and sent out parties to explore the country. He divided his men into two parties, who took turns exploring the surrounding area. He warned that they should stick together and return when the sun went down to sleep in their settlement.

"Where is Pelle?" Øystein asked puzzled and worried, when half his men returned to the settlement after dark.

"He's not here?" Jørn asked him, just as surprised and worried.

"No," he answered, as cold and dry as the weather. There was no time to ask for explanations or look for culprits to be angry with, what he had to look for was his friend. "Grab some torches, we're going in search of him."

He knew it was unlikely in many ways, but the thought of Pelle running away from him terrified him. He could have done so long ago, when he had set him free; but he didn't, he stayed by his side.

With an Øystein deeply dismayed, twelve men divided into small groups of three went in search of him. He chose to be accompanied by Bård and Vegard. They split off in various directions in the direction they had scouted during the day, but not far from each other. With the torches they kept in visual contact.

They had not gone far when they came across the Romanian, who was heading towards the settlement very excited, gesticulating wildly, and evidently drunk.

When Øystein saw him he handed his torch to Bård and ran towards him, almost stumbling. He couldn't help but hug him, glad to find him. Bård and Vegard looked at each other in silence, with understanding at such a heartfelt reunion.

It was an open secret that Pelle wasn't normal in many ways. It was typical of his profession, which was mostly practised by women — and in the few male cases they were usually effeminate men, with mannerisms, little strength and little or no interest in women. Being like him wasn't considered a bad thing, although it wasn't considered a good thing either. Some people used ergi as an insult, but not to Pelle because he was respected and loved by all — he didn't use his magic to defeat his enemies, which made him in everyone's eyes brave, fair and honest. He was endowed with supernatural powers and they believed that by being close to him you'll get good luck, as he contained the two essences of the human being: both masculinity and femininity, with both roles in one being. He also helped them to be in touch with the Gods, he was a healer, and most important of all, Øystein clearly had a devotion to him. It was obvious the affection, respect and admiration they had for each other. And everyone knew that they slept together in the same bed when they went out to explore the world, but no one knew if they ever had sex, let alone what each other's role was in it.

Vegard alerted the others that they had found him, and they all went over to meet.

"Why, my friend," asked Øystein with his hands on his cheeks, scanning him up and down and down and up as he parted from him, "have you come so late? What made you leave your companions?!"

"Mă știți, îmi place să mă mă plimb singur și să caut animale și plante moarte" Pelle, in his state, answered unwittingly in Romanian. "Am dat peste un ciorchine de struguri, am început să mă mănânc și am pierdut noțiunea timpului, îmi pare rău."

His companions understood nothing and Øystein a little, for in the course of their friendship he had learned a few words in his language, but he didn't know enough to understand it fully, let alone being clearly intoxicated, stammering rapidly.

"Pelle, we don't understand you. Speak in our language, please," he said, clutching his hands tightly.

"Oh, right!" He laughed. "I have not gone far," he said in their language; "I have some news for you. I have discovered vines laden with grapes."

"Are you telling the truth, my friend?" Øystein exclaimed.

"I'm sure I'm telling the truth," answered Pelle, "for in my native land there were vineyards in abundance."

"All right, I believe you," he said letting go of him and wrapping one of the blond's languid arms around his shoulders, wanting to help him walk, "but now let's go home. You must rest. Fenriz, help me with him," he said, and he obeyed.

They were about to reach the settlement when Pelle threw up everything he had taken. He would be weaker than usual because of it, which Øystein was worried about, but he knew it was best to flush everything toxic out of his body.

"Let this be the last time you scare me like this, please," he said sitting down on the floor beside his bed after lighting the fireplace in his cabin. He had his right arm resting on the bed, resting his head on his fist, and with his other hand he grabbed Pelle's right hand, which was hanging down, brushing against the wooden floor.

"Sorry," he said laughing weakly, exhausted from being out all day and from the vomit he had thrown up earlier.

"I'm not laughing, you idiot," he said half jokingly, half seriously. The shock still lingered in his body, but he was glad to have found him and that he was well (as well as a thin man like him could be, after grape poisoning and a bout of vomiting).

Still holding his hand he lifted it to his lips, planting a sweet kiss on it. Pelle's smile didn't fade, and his cheeks were red though probably from the grapes.

"Come here," the shaman said as he rolled onto his side, and he obeyed lying down beside him. To his surprise Pelle curled up next to him, burying his face in his neck and using his arm as a pillow. He had his arms across their torsos, and with Øystein's free hand he decided to brush his hair away from his face and caress his cheek and chin.

"Te iubesc," Pelle whispered into his neck, almost tickling him. Øystein froze on hearing such Romanian words — he stopped caressing him, his eyes became as round as the moon and his heart raced even faster.

"Are you serious?" he asked astonished, pulling back to look at him to observe his facial expression.

"They are just words, carried away by the wind. They leave no mark."

"They leave a mark on my heart," he said taking his hand again and bringing it to his chest so that he could feel the quickening of his heartbeat.

The dark-haired man's eyes fell to his lips, and he began to move slowly towards them, but Pelle stopped him speaking and now he was the one moving backwards.

"That is no longer words Øystein, that is an act. We must not."

"No one will know. And I've done my duty anyway," he said referring to his children thousands of miles away. And he was right — homosexuality was best accepted after the men had formed a family, once the social obligation to contribute children to the community had been fulfilled.

"Once we start we can't stop," he said referring to penetration. It was thought that a man who submitted sexually to another man would do the same in other areas, that he would be a follower rather than a leader, or be on a lower social position than the other. He didn't want the status and honour of either to be tarnished.

"I do not wish to subjugate you, and I hope you do not wish to subjugate me. Even if you were still a slave, I would never force you into anything. Te iubesc."

"All right," Pelle said smiling.

"Then can I kiss you?" asked Øystein excitedly.

"You can," he answered, and as soon as he said that he brought his hand to his cheek and moved back to his lips, finally merging them after years of daydreaming and sleeping about it, proving and sealing their love once and for all.

"You were right, everything went well."

A/N: Crosspoted on my AO3.

Second part: 𖤐

[princess-lvcifer]

make-up

loc!eurodead • drabble • rewrite

Euronymous and Dead were locked in the bathroom, preparing for one of their many parties, putting make-up on each other. Euronymous was sitting on the toilet and Dead in front of him, leaning over.

"Sit on top of me," he said to Dead as he saw how uncomfortable he was doing his make-up standing up.

Dead hesitated for a second, but bolted the bathroom door shut before agreeing to the proposal. The brunet looked closely at every detail of the blond's already made-up face, and the blond pretended not to notice, focused on finishing his friend's make-up. But there was a moment when their gazes met and Euronymous couldn't help but smile.

"Don't smile, you'll fuck up the make-up," Dead told him.

"Do you know how I'll fuck up the makeup for real?" he asked, and he thought by getting drunk at the party — but that thought vanished when Euronymous grabbed his shirt and kissed him, merging the black and white paints on both their lips, creating grey smudges on both of them. Dead tensed at first, even though it wasn't the first time they'd acted like this, but he wanted to deny himself everything he felt for him and didn't want anyone else to know their secret.

"We'll take longer now," he said annoyed while getting up from his legs to go touch up his lips, wiping them clean and repainting them white in front of the small, dirty round mirror there.

"More time together."