Chapter Text
We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love.
— Sigmund Freud
9
Thorfinn took a deep breath. Seated in the armchair of Leif’s private study, he could do nothing but try to make that hour of conversation at least somewhat productive — an hour that, under different circumstances, would have been spent in absolute silence.
The first few times, that’s exactly how it had gone: he didn’t speak, retreating into his hard shell, encrusted with dust and scars; his mouth was sewn shut, tightly clenched, while his grim gaze screamed out heartbreaking, incomprehensible words, steeped in pain and blind fury.
For years, he had believed that nothing and no one could ever fix him: he was a broken, malfunctioning wreck, a disaster of nature who hadn’t even been able to save his father — or at the very least, give him the justice he deserved.
Thorfinn craved revenge like a desperate man searching for a water source after days of agony wandering through a scorching desert: it was a matter of life and death, a waking nightmare that had no end.
And that name, that cursed name, poisoned his heart every night and clouded every thought, dragging him deeper and deeper into a spiral of hatred and resentment.
(Askeladd.)
Like ashes thickening on his tongue and choking his lungs.
That man’s name had been eating him alive for eleven years. But today, he didn’t want to talk about that with Leif. Not right away, at least.
“I got into a fight with the usual five idiots three days ago,” he muttered, his broken nails picking at the peeling skin on his fingers, “but after blowing off some steam, I didn’t go home. I went… somewhere else.”
“You went to the person who treated your wounds?” Leif asked calmly. A kind smile deepened the wrinkles on his face.
Thorfinn flinched, caught off guard. How did he figure that out? His surprised expression prompted Leif to continue: “Every time you come here after a fight, your wounds are always in bad shape: not only because they were inflicted on you, but because you don’t really take care of them. You always let time do the healing, which makes it take much longer. Today, though, they seem to be well into the healing phase, as if someone who knows their way around disinfectants and bandages had helped you. Am I right?”
Thorfinn nodded slowly, feeling his cheeks prickle at the memory of Canute spreading honey on his split lip. After what had happened that night, they hadn’t spoken a word about it at school, but they had grown much closer than they already were before. Being seatmates, always working together on group projects, and being the only classmate Canute could interact with comfortably were all things that played in his favor. And only now did he realize just how important they were.
“It’s a classmate of mine. The new one — even though the second semester is about to start, so he’s not really new anymore. I don’t know why I went to him after the fight, but… well…”
Damn it, no. Talking about this with Leif was turning out to be a terrible idea: he kept stumbling over his words, feeling like a teenager grappling with something he couldn’t understand and, for that reason, found intimidating
(but wasn’t that exactly the case? Wasn’t he really just a teenager experiencing certain emotions for the first time?)
“I don’t know,” he muttered hastily, tangled in his own thoughts.
“How do you feel when you think about him? I mean, in relation to what happened that night.”
“I don’t know,” he repeated again, shifting restlessly in his seat. His heart was pounding a little faster in his chest, and Thorfinn had no idea how to slow it down. He swallowed hard before continuing: “The only thing I’m sure of is that after the fight, I went to him. And before I could stop myself, my finger had already pressed the doorbell at his house. And when he invited me in, I didn’t resist.”
“And you let him treat your wounds, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think that is?”
I don’t know, he wanted to say yet again. He didn’t even understand where Leif was going with all these questions, but he certainly understood now why Canute had withdrawn into an impenetrable silence during his first days at school — answering certain questions was really difficult.
He looked around, almost as if searching for answers elsewhere rather than within himself. His gaze settled on the wooden bookshelf behind Leif, packed with volumes on psychology, travel, and Nordic culture. But the most striking thing among the shelves was undoubtedly the model of a Viking ship, which had always made Thorfinn want to set off on a journey to who knows where just by looking at it. The warm light illuminating the study brought out the color of the walls, a sage green that, during his first sessions, he had loathed with all his being. Now, it left him indifferent.
“Because he didn’t give me a choice,” he finally said, growing defensive. “I mean, he was dead set on disinfecting every single cut, and I just let him do it.”
It was a lie. A lie on all fronts. He had let Canute treat his wounds because he had looked into his eyes and, in those light blue irises, he had seen a determination — mixed with concern — that had shaken him to his core. He had shown up at his house because he had felt a visceral need to see him and to be seen in that state — their worlds had collided, like a drop of rust-colored paint falling with an awkward splatter onto a pristine canvas.
He wanted Canute to understand just how much of a mess he was, how different their lives were from each other. And maybe, deep down, he really had wanted to scare him, to make him step back, to let him distance himself from the tangled mess of his emotions and feelings. If Canute had let himself be consumed by fear, if he had walked away for good, then Thorfinn could have truly protected him.
“He didn’t ask any questions. He just treated my wounds. And then he invited me to stay for dinner. And then…”
And then I held him close because he was so insistent on watching a horror movie, even though he knew it would scare him to death. I held him close, and I swear, Leif, I never wanted that moment to end. And that’s when I ruined my plan to push him away — because by then, it had become impossible. I can’t be without him. Not anymore. Not after what happened that night.
Which, in the grand scheme of things, was nothing extraordinary. But I’ve never shared these kinds of things with anyone. I’ve always been alone, and before I met him, I never felt the need to form connections with others. But with him, it’s different. Because even when I try to stay away, somehow, I always end up orbiting around him. And no, I’m never going to say any of this out loud, you old man. Because you’ve probably already figured it all out anyway, so there’s no need.
“… and then we watched a movie,” he concluded quickly, resurfacing from the vast ocean of his thoughts. “It was a quiet evening.”
“If you could do it all over again, would you?”
“The fight included?”
Leif chuckled. “Of course not. I mean everything that came after: the dinner with a classmate, the movie, the time spent together. Would you relive all of that?”
And as Thorfinn answered, he thought back to the question Canute had asked him that night: ‘If you’re there, then why not?’
“Only if it’s with him.”
Leif seemed pleased with that response. “That’s definitely progress,” he commented. “At first, you wouldn’t let anyone get close to you. But now, your perspective has changed. Whatever it is you’re feeling right now, even if you don’t understand it and it scares you, don’t push it away. Learn to accept it, to listen to it, to make it your own. If it makes you feel good, then it’s not wrong.”
So what he felt for Canute… wasn’t wrong? Was it really okay?
Could it be something kissed by the winter sun?
All he knew was that vinterferie was about to begin, and he couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing him for a whole week.
When the session ended and Thorfinn stepped out of the office, the first thing he did was pull his phone from his pocket. A moment later, he sent Canute a message: Want to go to the movies one of these nights?
10
Canute had chosen a drama—introspective, filled with monologues. Was Thorfinn surprised? Of course not.
After all, after nearly dying of fear during a horror movie, it was only fair that Canute got to pick what they watched this time, and Thorfinn had simply gone along with it.
The theater was quite full, but with a bit of luck, they had managed to get two tickets in the second-to-last row, fairly centered. With two bottles of Faxe Kondi and a giant bag of lösgodis, they watched in silence, completely absorbed by the plot and by the actors’ ability to bring real-life situations to the screen — situations that could make the audience relate, for better or worse.
But then something happened during the second half of the film, when their bag of candy was nearly empty, something that brought them even closer together without even needing to look at each other.
"There is no father who would not love his own son."
The protagonist’s words, spoken in a scene thick with tension, carried such weight in his voice that more than a few people in the audience shuddered. Thorfinn was no exception. Neither was Canute.
Their hands met halfway, as if they had already known they would, as if they needed to feel each other in that moment, to be there together. Slowly, their fingers intertwined, locking into a firm, unbreakable grasp.
(For a moment, it felt like they were at the heart of a star.)
That sentence had shaken them both, but in different ways. Thorfinn knew exactly why, his pain over losing his father still stabbed at his heart like a bloodstained dagger, and the name of his murderer was the source of his greatest torment. He didn’t know what Canute’s reasons were, but from the way he had squeezed his hand, it had to be something just as deep, just as delicate.
Maybe they had something in common.
Maybe they weren’t so different after all.
As the credits rolled, accompanied by the film’s soundtrack, they stayed in their seats a little longer while the rest of the audience stood up, putting on their coats to leave. They remained in absolute silence, their fingers still intertwined and two small holes in their chests, right where their hearts were.
11
"There were too many monologues for my taste. But overall, I liked it."
"Some of the monologues were really impactful, though, don’t you think? Especially the confrontation between the father and son. It gave me chills."
"You get chills over everything, your opinion doesn’t count."
"Don’t say that, Thorfinn!"
Canute covered his face with his hands, visibly embarrassed. Seeing him do that, Thorfinn let out a small smile, something he hadn’t done in years.
Stretching his lips, curving them upward, realizing how much he enjoyed Canute’s company, those were things that unsettled him. But, as Leif had told him, he had to learn to embrace these new feelings, to make them his own.
"Alright, I was joking. I liked that moment too. That line…"
"There is no father who would not love his own son," Canute recited, lowering his hands to his sides. "It really was impactful."
"Yeah, very."
They stopped, looking into each other’s eyes. They had just left the cinema, and around them, groups of teenagers and families with small children were walking in the same direction or heading the opposite way. The two of them stood there, unmoving, while the world around them continued its unknown path.
"Do you really have to call Ragnar now?"
Canute shook his head, smiling slightly. "I can stay a little longer."
Thorfinn licked his lips and, for some inexplicable reason, he could still sense the faintest taste of honey on the scar of an old wound. For a moment, his vocal cords felt tangled, clumsy. He took a deep breath through his nose and then asked, "Do you want to come to my place?"
12
Helga and Ylva were in the living room. The former was sitting in an armchair, absorbed in a book, while the latter had taken over the entire table, fully focused on the countless documents she had to review and sign for the upcoming events she was organizing in collaboration with the cultural center where she worked.
For Thorfinn, it was strange to see them together at that hour; not so much Ylva, since she often worked late, but rather his mother, who was usually already in bed by then. In eleven years, this might have been the first time he had seen her so at peace, even though a faint veil of tiredness still clouded her face.
Introducing Canute to them was inevitable, but it went surprisingly well: no awkward questions, no intrusions, just an eloquent look from Ylva — as if to say: so you finally bring a classmate home and introduce him to us —, and a gentle smile from Helga. It went better than he had expected, and the relief that coursed through every cell of his body sent a shiver down his spine.
Canute took off his heavy coat and scarf, and Thorfinn did the same. They left their garments on the coat rack in the hallway before heading upstairs to the first floor.
"Your Highness will have to forgive me if my room is a disaster," he said as he opened the door to a world that, until then, had been accessible only to him.
Canute chuckled, following him inside, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe he hadn’t truly expected that level of mess, or maybe, more simply, he found it fascinating.
Thorfinn’s room was an ode to chaos and inner anarchy, yet it followed a logic of its own, one that, in the end, made sense. The walls were covered with posters of metalcore bands, both Scandinavian and not, while the only shelf in the room housed an extensive selection of horror movie DVDs and manga, including works by Junji Ito. On the desk, alongside a small TV and a gaming console surrounded by headphones and controllers, there were numerous concert tickets — some of which had been organized by Ylva — along with a collection of random souvenirs and an endless number of guitar picks scattered atop an equally endless pile of sheet music.
A matte black electric guitar rested on a stand near the desk, its cable coiled neatly at the base. The strings bore the telltale signs of wear, proof that they had been played frequently over time. Next to it sat a small amplifier, with effects pedals strewn across the floor.
Amidst the clutter of objects scattered everywhere and clothes spilling out of the wardrobe, Canute instinctively knew where to go. With gentle hands, he picked up a picture frame resting on the desk and studied the photo inside.
"Is this your father?" he asked softly, as if a single whisper could shatter a fragile crystal.
Seeing him there, standing in the center of his chaos, holding his heart in his hands, sent a tidal wave of emotions crashing over Thorfinn — emotions he had no way of containing.
"Yeah, that’s him," he replied, his throat tightening into a knot, fully aware that Canute had now ventured too deep into the forest where no light could reach.
It was in that moment that he truly realized just how important Canute had become to him: because he was about to tell him about his burden, the weight he would never be free from.
And for the first time, he feared losing him. If that happened, then the darkness would consume him forever.
13
The photo Canute had been looking at had been taken just a few weeks before the tragedy unfolded. It captured Thorfinn, who was six years old at the time, sitting on his father's shoulders — a towering man with a warm smile that exuded a sense of protection just by looking at him.
"His name was Thors," Thorfinn said after sitting down on the edge of the bed. Canute did the same, and now, once again, their bodies were close, creating a contrast between refined clothes and an oversized hoodie in the midst of a completely chaotic room.
(What a mess).
"Before my sister and I were born, he was a special forces soldier in Norway. But after starting a family and moving to Iceland, he decided to reinvent himself as an investigative journalist because he was tired of violence. He always told me that beneath the surface of a perfect world, there was a rotten one full of dishonesty, and he didn’t want to be part of it anymore. For years, he dedicated himself to exposing corruption and abuses of power in the private security and defense industries, and I… I admired him so much for that."
He was his hero, his guiding light, his pillar. Thors was an exceptional man, and Thorfinn believed this not just because he was his father: he had seen the gratitude reflected in the faces of those his father had helped over the years. That was undeniable proof of the good that giant of a man had done. Only someone like him, who had lived through and experienced violence firsthand, could truly understand how desperately the world needed justice.
"His work led him to uncover some dangerous secrets about a powerful organization, as well as illegal collaborations between governments and corporations. He had arranged to meet an informant in a secluded place, and that time, I insisted so much on going with him that he finally gave in, just to stop my nagging."
A bitter bile rose in his throat, forcing him to stop. A cruel, shameless coldness took hold of him, and an unbearable weight squeezed his lungs.
"I felt like I was in a movie. I just… I just wanted to see him in action, doing the job he had dedicated himself to with all his heart. The informant was supposed to hand him a USB drive containing the final pieces of the puzzle that would expose those involved. But when we got to the meeting place…"
(Askeladd).
He didn’t know when it had happened, but he found himself trembling in Canute’s arms, his nose filled with the scent of him, his face pressed against the fabric of his shirt. Maybe there was no need to say anything more, not that night. Maybe Canute had already figured out what had happened, the horror Thorfinn had been forced to witness: his father murdered before his very eyes by a mercenary with an icy stare — the same man who, for reasons still unfathomable, had spared his life.
Eleven years later, Thorfinn still couldn’t understand why, and every attempt to grasp the truth, to seek justice on his own, crumbled like ashes between his fingers, leaving only a black stain of cancerous soot.
He didn’t remember everything from that day, but its emotional imprint had been burned into his skin like a curse, replaying itself every night in his darkest nightmares. They were memories as filthy as mud, steeped in the urgency in Thors’ voice as he ordered him to stay in the car and not come out for any reason, in the sight of Askeladd stepping out from the shadows, revealing his true nature, in the realization that there had never been an informant, only a hitman, hired by those who didn’t want Thors’ discoveries to see the light of day.
And so, they silenced him forever in the most brutal way possible.
They didn’t care that Thors was leaving behind a wife and two children in absolute devastation, forcing them to relocate for their own safety. To them, he was just a thorn in their side that needed to be removed. Nothing more.
(Like wiping dust off a surface and then walking away, never looking back).
"That bastard killed him right in front of me. I know he did. And yet, all I remember are his eyes staring at me, nothing else. And I thought: now he’s going to kill me too."
He buried himself even deeper into Canute’s embrace, and the other boy began to stroke his back with gentle tenderness.
"I couldn’t do anything. Not even when the police interrogated me to shed light on what happened, because my brain had shut down, and all I could remember were that man’s eyes. All I know is that, based on the investigation, he was a hitman named Askeladd. But what good is a name to me if that bastard is still out there somewhere, alive and well? I… I couldn’t save my father."
"But you were just a child, Thorfinn." Canute loosened the embrace so he could look him in the eyes. "You’re not to blame. Your father protected you until the very end, and if you’re here now, it’s because of him. He did everything he could to save you… and the pain you carry inside is more than understandable. But you mustn’t think, not even for a second, that it was your fault."
That’s exactly what I’ve thought for the past eleven years, he wanted to say, but all that came out was: "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?" Canute asked in return, caught off guard.
"Like the way you are. Ever since you took me into your home without demanding an explanation, I haven't been able to understand anything anymore. You throw me off balance, you make me feel vulnerable. Why are you like this? Aren't you afraid of me?"
Canute’s eyes widened, and he gave a small jolt. He lowered his gaze and reached for Thorfinn’s hands, enclosing them in his own. "I’m not afraid of you. I’m terrified of many things, but when I’m with you, I feel safe. If anything… if anything, sometimes I’m afraid for you. When I saw you in that awful state, at first, I was paralyzed with panic. But then, the only thing I could think about was that you were there, and you needed help, and I could be that help."
Canute hesitated, then curved his lips into a slight smile. "Do you remember how I was when the first semester started? After always having private lessons, attending a public school in my last year of high school was madness. But for the first time, I had made a decision for myself, and I found myself thrown into a world I knew nothing about. I was a bundle of nerves, especially when I think about all the people who wanted to get close to me just to gain favors. Because no one ever saw me for who I really was; they only ever saw me as the son of the politician Sweyn."
He lifted his gaze back to Thorfinn, now smiling more gently. "But you didn’t. You were always straightforward, you never treated me with kid gloves, and it was obvious that my social status meant nothing to you. At first, I was intimidated by you, I won’t deny it, because no one had ever treated me the way you did. But then, I couldn’t help but think that if I had met you sooner, things in my life might have turned out very differently. So… thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me."
Had anyone ever thanked him in all those years of aimless living? Thorfinn didn’t take long to find the answer, and it was no.
Canute was thanking him for being himself with him. For being rough, even a little intimidating, for showing him a slice of the world he had never known.
But Thorfinn was also made of rage, resentment, and wounds that still bled. He was all that had survived the day his father died, a scribbled mess of jagged edges that clashed with anyone who dared provoke him, a boy who might never smile again like the child frozen in that photograph.
He took refuge in his blind fury whenever he needed an outlet for his pain and frustration because it was the only way he knew how to cope with the emptiness he felt in his chest.
(Then Canute had come along, and that emptiness had slowly started to fill with his presence. But Thorfinn didn’t know how to take care of it. And that scared him).
"I haven’t done anything at all. You, on the other hand, need to stop making me feel like this. I don’t understand these things, I don’t know how to deal with them."
"Then I should say the same to you. You should stop too… stop making me feel like this."
Thorfinn broke the grip of their hands. Then, with sudden force, he pressed his lips against Canute’s.
14
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. At least not at first. It was impulsive, instinctive, so clumsy that it would have quickly turned into a complete disaster if Canute hadn’t taken Thorfinn’s face in his hands and started to guide him toward something softer, sweeter, more tender.
Their lips were so different, yet they seemed made to meet, to come together, to crave each other.
(Like sandpaper rubbing against velvet).
Once they found their own rhythm, slower and more passionate, Thorfinn took the opportunity to run his tongue along Canute’s lower lip, an impatient request to go further.
Canute barely shuddered before parting his lips, and when their tongues met, it was like becoming one: something inside them melted, then reshaped into an entirely different form, less burdensome, more pleasant.
Completely at the mercy of the sensations overwhelming him, Thorfinn leaned his body toward him; his hands slid to Canute’s hips, inviting him to lie down on the bed. But it wasn’t so much the action itself that drove him crazy, but more the fact that Canute followed his lead, pulling his hands away from his face and throwing his arms around his neck.
They fell together onto that bed, which had always endured lonely nights filled with terrifying monsters; into that room where chaos reigned, but if one knew how to navigate it, there was always a way out
(or the perfect place to stay).
If someone had told him that one day he and Canute would get this far — because it was far —Thorfinn would have laughed scornfully, dismissing it as impossible. But now it was happening.
It was really happening.
And when they finally broke apart to catch their breath, and Canute gently ran a finger over his nearly healed lip, Thorfinn realized something: Canute was like the sun.
But not just any sun, he was like the winter sun, kissing your face without burning your skin, allowing you to bask in its warmth without fear of consequence.
(He was like the winter sun, Canute, timid, yet wonderful.)
It didn’t hurt; it lit up the day, and even if only for a few hours, its light was a source of reassurance. The next day, it would rise again in the east, chasing away nightmares black as pitch, illuminating a still-drowsy world with all the gentleness it could offer.
It was a sun to be kissed, to be devoured, to fall into so completely that space and time ceased to exist.
It was what Thorfinn needed to feel more human.
And it was what Canute was willing to give him without reservation.
"One day, you’ll tell me what’s on your mind too," he murmured, looking into his eyes.
Canute nodded slowly, as if returning to reality only at that moment. "I will," he promised, without breaking eye contact.
Thorfinn wanted to kiss him again —and again, and again, and again — but the sound of footsteps on the stairs put him on high alert.
"What is it?" Canute asked in a whisper, noticing his change in expression.
"I think we won’t be alone for much longer," Thorfinn replied, his suspicion confirmed moments later: Ylva knocked three times, but didn’t ask to come in.
Thorfinn sighed, reluctantly pulling away from Canute. After getting up, he made his way to the door. In the meantime, Canute had also stood up, trying to compose himself as best he could — though failing miserably.
"It’s getting late," Ylva informed him when he cracked the door open. "And I wouldn’t want anyone at his house to start worrying. Come on, get ready. I’ll go start the car."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
Ylva looked at him as if dealing with a lovestruck teenager — oh, God, that was exactly what he was.
"Do you really think there won’t be even a tiny bit of awkwardness between me and Canute if we’re left alone? Especially after what just happened in this room?"
"Look, we didn’t…!"
"Don’t make me say it again. I’ll be waiting downstairs."
And with that, she turned and headed down the stairs.
Thorfinn closed the door, barely holding back a frustrated grunt and a thousand other emotions he still had to learn to understand.
"We have to go," he simply said, stepping closer to Canute.
Canute nodded again, his cheeks slightly flushed, a faint sense of disorientation in his gaze. And who could blame him?
"Oh, to hell with it," Thorfinn muttered, standing on his toes to press their lips together once more.
He hated, with every fiber of his being, the height difference between them, but what could he do?
They wobbled slightly but didn’t fall. Their grip on each other steadied, and everything else ceased to matter.
When Thorfinn felt Canute’s lips curve into a smile while their kiss continued, he realized, perhaps, that this was happiness.
And he swore to himself that he would hold onto it.
Thors would have wanted that.
And now, so did he.