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Øystein has never found these snuff films as appealing as Pelle does, but watches them anyways for the opportunity to spend time together — and, frankly, out of paranoia that he try to recreate something upon himself. The volume is not high, but most of the sound is quiet or extremely loud, and Øystein thinks this level is a safe bet.
They began sitting upright, but it soon devolved into Pelle laying down, and Øystein atop of him. Despite his frame, which lacks any softness, Pelle's Sodom sweater is cozy to lay against, and his hand rests on Øystein's back almost protectively — or, at least, that's what Øystein thinks the feeling it gives him is.
It has been a long day, and he's glad to be able to relax for a little while with Pelle before laying awake for hours thinking.
Pelle's hand had been more or less petting his back, but moments ago stopped. Øystein is almost happy that it did; he was going to fall asleep.
"Can you turn it off?" Pelle asks suddenly. His voice betrays no hint of his usual, just-broken-focus tone, and that worries Øystein; Pelle always likes to study these films.
He shifts to rest his chin on Pelle's chest. "Is something wrong, little goat?"
"I don't want to look at knives right now."
Øystein clicks it off, and moves so that he can hover his face above his. "What is it?"
Pelle looks to be deep in thought, and then decides, "I just said."
Allowing him his privacy, he asks instead, "No talking?"
"No," Pelle agrees.
Øystein brushes his hair away from his face and presses a kiss to his forehead. It makes the corner of Pelle's mouth quirk up. He leaves a second kiss at his temple, taking a second to look down at him and stroke his cheek with his thumb. Pelle closes his eyes and suddenly looks very tired, the darkness under his sunken eyes pronounced and leading them to recede further into his skull.
Øystein frowns.
He doesn't like to poke and prod, but Pelle worries him and his casual attentions do a fat lot of good.
He leans down and kisses his cheek, readjusting himself to rest his head on his chest again. It takes a long while for him to muster the courage to say anything, let alone something as heartfelt as he needs to, and with difficulty, Øystein says, "I care about you, Pelle."
Pelle tenses beneath him, and then his hand on Øystein's back curls around his shoulders and holds him a little closer. "I know," he says, voice quiet.
"I'm here for you."
He sighs, though it isn't with malice for Øystein. Still, his voice does not carry a convincing amount of certainty when he repeats: "I know."
A silence befalls them, though it isn't uncomfortable. It is tinged with something that usually doesn't come during their time together, a little bit of sorrow and grief, and a little more understanding than even usual. Pelle squeezes Øystein's shoulders, and they stay like that, tangled on the couch as Pelle thinks and thinks and Øystein worries and worries.
Finally, Pelle speaks.
"I'm sick of Jan's shit."
"Do you want me to tell him off?" Øystein says, reflexively protective.
"No. No, I'm a grown man," Pelle says. "He won't quit fucking around even if I rip him a new one."
"Probably not, no," he reasons.
He has given up trying to reprimand their band mates — they are all grown men, as Pelle said, and Øystein doesn't have to teach Jan manners nor put up with his assorted issues and horseshit. He thinks again the thought he had days ago, that perhaps they'd be better off with just the two of them; perhaps not economically or musically or in anyway that really mattered to anyone but the two of them, sure, but better off nonetheless.
"At least I come home to you," Pelle replies, in his oddly sweet manner.
Øystein smiles a little, turning his face more into Pelle's sweater. "At least there's that."
Another silence falls, resting with them rather than between them. It usually seems to help Pelle to voice his woes, even if Øystein feels that his replies are not good or well worded or helpful in the slightest.
"Øystein?"
He grunts.
"Will you brush my hair?"
"Of course."
Pelle waits on the couch, while Øystein moves sluggishly to retrieve his hairbrush. His hair is well enough cared for, but it shows the tangles and mess of the day and its wind. The brush goes through with little catching, and Øystein makes sure to comb his fingers through it, too, knowing Pelle enjoys that feeling. His shoulders visibly untense as Øystein works through his hair, the only sounds in the room their breathing, the soft movement of Øystein's sweater, and the brush's scratchy noises.
He thinks, for a moment, that Pelle's hair would look nice in a braid. It's certainly long and thick enough to style that way, but he keeps it to himself and brushes until Pelle says that'll be enough, I'm nodding off.
When they resituate themselves, Øystein simply cannot help himself. Pelle is still tired and down, but the lightening of his mood is under way and it is because of Øystein, and that makes some conceited part of the man feel even more attracted to him. He kisses him gently, first, and then his cheek and temple and jaw and chin, until Pelle is pushing him away with a hand on his face and a tired laugh.
"You're a fucking idiot," he says, but Øystein just takes the hand that pushed him away and kisses the back of it.
"One of us has to be," he replies, "Or it just isn't balanced."