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For the past three hours, Emil had been sitting near the tiny house, on a grassy hill scattered with small, golden flowers. Elbows firmly planted on his thighs and head in his hands, gazing into space. Or maybe not really into space. For now several weeks, he had been pondering a question. No, not just a question. A Question. A Very Important Question, that had been turning at the back of his mind for days now. Since they had left Mälmo, in fact. Crossing the snowy plains had left him with many hours to think about it, without landing on a satisfying answer.
At the other edge of the camp, Lalli got up from where he was sitting and walked to the small fire, sniffing whatever mixture Mikkel was boiling in his pot. He grimaced at the smell and walked to the clothes hanging on a string, patting one of the sweaters to check if it was dry. Emil's eyes followed closely. There laid the crux of the problem, the center of the Question. The thing that had been torturing him, and kept tormenting him day after day, hour after hour.
Who, in their right mind, had found appropriate to provide Lalli with those boots ?
Because their uniforms, as thrifty as they were, had been designed by someone who had at least some idea of what they needed. They were different, tailored to their missions : Emil's was thick, strong enough to protect him from the falling rubble and the heat created by his flamethrower. It didn't catch fire easily and was warm enough for the weather. Mikkel was mostly the same, maybe not as fire-resistant, but comfortable and protecting him against hits. Sigrun's was lighter, less insulated, but more flexible, adapted to fast moves and quick attacks. And of course, Lalli's tunic was short as not to hinder his movements, light and airy to let him breathe, and a hood to block out all annoyances.
And those boots.
There were gloves, too, Emil knew it, he had felt their contact enough times not to forget them. But they were incidental. They didn't even deserve a mention. Not when one was focusing on the boots.
On a rational plane, Emil understood. Lalli had to be able to cover a huge distance in a short time, to run fast on all kinds of grounds, and pass any kind of obstacle without being impeded by anything. In his line of work, being even slowed down a little could very well mean death, by troll or even worse. Emil didn't know what was more awful, getting torn apart, or being incapacited by a wound and slowly die of cold or starvation. Both were a horrible way to go, and the mere idea of Lalli suffering such a fate was enough to make him want to lock the Finn inside and never let him outside ever again.
Lalli had grown disinteressed with the laundry, or maybe displeased, and was currently looking at the sea, his gaze focused on the waves as if he could bring the ship coming for them by the sheer force of his glare. He was standing at the extreme edge of a rock, his whole body tensing, standing on his toes like he was ready to jump at the slightest hint of a boat. The position did nothing for poor Emil's nerves. Perched like that, it was extremely easy for one's eyes to be dragged to those damn boots again.
Because he knew, they needed to be sturdy. They needed to hold around his legs and move with him and bend and crease and not chafe or anything. He knew that. But still. Did they need to be so... so... evident ? Did they have to be so shiny ? Because they were, even after weeks and weeks spent trudging through the snow and dirt. Mikkel's vigorous cleaning could have something to do with it, but Emil knew that leather didn't stay that spotless after so much time in the field. And still, Lalli's boots were still as shiny as if they had just be made, the light tracing zigzags following the wrinkles around the knees. Black and shiny and just so, so smooth. The leather did have a grain, Emil had felt it more than once, but from there, it looked perfectly sleek, almost liquid.
But even worse that this glossy appearance that seemed to call for his hands, was that they were very, really, extremely form-fitting. They followed every curve of Lalli's legs, hiding nothing of their shape. The shine didn't help, glossy lines underlining the muscles of the thighs, the curve of the calves tensing to allow him a better vantage point, running down to his feet, so delicate for someone running so much, like Lalli had dipped his legs in a vat of ink. Even the laces only served to make his ankles look even thinner, so thin that Emil felt he could have broken them by squeezing them too tight, like a handful of sticks. Of course, it was just an impression. As delicate as Lalli was, and Emil knew what he looked like under those boots, his legs were way sturdier than they looked. Strong and muscular, almost wiry....
Emil shook his head, mussing his hair, trying to dispel the thoughts starting to form and push them back down where they should remain. And still, even with his best efforts, they were starting to peek through, slowly coming to the surface like some kind of marine creatures from the depths, at first some vague shadows, quickly gaining weight and presence. Just some bubbles of thoughts piercing through at first, the slope of the calf, the leather creasing and cracking with a sharp twist of the foot, tight across the top, the light in small lines... And his fingers sliding on them. That one was quickly gaining traction ; his fingertips at first, slowly passing over the arch just above the sole, climbing over the ankle and the laces crossing over it. The foot moving a little under his touch. And now, his hand following the curve, flat against the leather, higher and higher. Passing the knee, and stroking the larger area of the thigh...
Emil swallowed hard, trying to soothe his suddenly very dry throat. The mere idea was enough to make his heart race and his breath come short. And still the image kept coming, his hand on the shiny leather. Reaching the top of the boot, the white fabric slipping up to reveal the pale, shivering skin under... The fingers, slowly, very slowly slipping the boot down, inch by inch...
(Emil knew very well that Lalli's boots weren't that easy to get down. He had to do it several times the past few days, and there was way less seductive stroking and way more swearing and pulling with all his might, but his brain was kind enough to not dwell on it.)
In his mind, the boot was now past Lalli's knee, unveiling the small scar across the bone, the leg so white under the black material. His fingers itched to feel, to stroke, and they touched the skin, very lightly....
And something fell just beside him, almost crushing his hand. He barely had time to save his fingers. Lalli may be barely heavier than a moderatly-sized chicken, but it could still hurt. The Finn glanced at him, and Emil suddenly realized that his cheeks were burning, and he was probably very, very red. But Lalli didn't say anything (not that Emil would have understood, his Finnish was still very, very basic) or poked his face. Instead, he patted down Emil's curls until they were all in order again. Once satisfied, he sat back down, mimicking Emil's pose, elbows on his knee.
- Food, he sighed, and pointed at the sun in a short curve.
It took Emil a long moment to understand what he meant. From what he could gather, Lalli was complaining about how long it was taking Mikkel to cook something for dinnertime. Not that he minded ; judging by the smell covering their makeshift campement, it would probably be something based way too heavily on stale canned fish and the leaves he had found around. But it would be warm, at least. And it would keep his mind out of those weird ideas. But they were coming back with a vengeance, because Lalli was sitting close. So close, in fact, that his leg was touching Emil's. His leg, encased in this damn boot. Emil wanted nothing more than forget about all those ideas before they started become... noticeable. But it was damn hard with that leather shining in the sun just under his eyes.
Lalli suddenly poked him sharply in the shoulder. Emil turned to glare at him, rubbing the skin - those fingers were pointy - but Lalli didn't let it faze him.
- Wrong ? he asked, pointing at the boots.
Of course Emil did follow his gesture, cursing himself for it. He was too busy keeping his face in some semblance of normalcy to answer, and Lalli poked him again. He was surely going to have a bruise there.
- Wrong ? You look. What wrong ? he repeated.
To better convey his meaning, he extended a leg, and would have put it directly on Emil's lap, had he not abruptly stood up, almost knocking Lalli down. He babbled something that the Finn certainly didn't get because it was barely Swedish, turned tail and ran away as soon as he could. Yeah. He was entirely, thouroughly, perpetually fucked. Because of boots, and the one that wore them. Damn them.
(He didn't get very far. In his hast of getting away, he hadn't really checked where he had been going, and ran head first into the nearest tree. The hit had the nasty side effect of leaving him with a hideous bruise on his forehead and of being made fun of by Sigrun while Mikkel was tending to him. But at least it got the boots out of his mind. For now.)