Chapter Text
A spring day in Copenhagen. Rain in the afternoon. Average.
Today Halvard doesn't have an umbrella with him—only a thick red raincoat and high waterproof boots—as he makes his way down the many crisscrossing streets of the Danish capitol. He's fond of the gloomy weather and the way water scatters under his feet as he steps through puddles. For him, today's mood suits him just fine, and for a day named after the moon, the lack of a single sun ray is fitting.
He walks with haste though, for as much as he likes the way the rain tastes on his lips when a stray drop hits them, he's had enough of being outside. It is a long walk from the pier that he came from to where he wants to go.
Halvard passes buses, bicyclists, pedestrians, his gaze pointed at the ground asides from quick glances at road signs to check his location (even though he knows exactly where he is), and yawns. He stops for a minute to watch a cat clean itself in the shelter of an overhanging roof until the cat notices his presence and stares right at him. “Shouldn't you be going?” it seems to be asking him as it stands up on all fours and meows loudly. “Dawdling isn't going to help you in the slightest, Halle.”
He scoffs at his internal monologue that he projected onto the cat and hurries off.
As far out as he is now, Halvard scolds himself for not taking the bus, but only gently, for he has had a good time walking around the city.
He passes by a house with cracking aged paint and potted plants that have not yet produced flowers and makes a sharp turn, walking up to the doorstep. From his pockets he fetches a set of keys and sorts through them to find the one he's looking for. In Halvard's honest opinion, he has too many damn keys. His own house, various governmental keys, Jóhannes' apartment in Reykjavik, Berwald's house, Berwald's cabin, his own cabin, a bunch of keys he had been given with no intention of using… he flips through them fast, the names and uses flying off his tongue, until his fingers stop on a familiar key, with edges worn and metal scratched and dull.
He inserts the key into the slot, turns it, and he's inside without any effort at all.
After removing his rain gear and shoes, Halvard takes a minute to enjoy the relative silence of Henrik's house. He strolls into the kitchen and stops at the refrigerator which has a small whiteboard on it. The only thing written is “Remember—you don't have Saturday free!” to which Halvard wonders what exactly Henrik is doing that day.
He takes the marker from its holder and uncaps it, pausing for a second before writing underneath Henrik's message in Norwegian: “You need to repaint your house.”
After returning the marker and rereading what he had written, he opens the refrigerator, finds a half eaten cake, and after some rummaging around for a plate and a fork, cuts himself a slice.
It's still quiet without anyone here. Henrik's mere existence is loud and when the whole family gathers here on a few select holidays every few years, Halvard sometimes finds himself sneaking off to the bathroom or outside to escape the noise. But for now, with only the light from outside and the raindrops, he sits in a rare moment of silence, eating cake, on a Monday, in the house of someone he loves very much.
The benefit of having close long-standing friends is that you can leave things with them and expect them to be there when you return.
He has to dig past a bin of Jóhannes' patterned sweaters, some of which he's probably grown out of by now, but he quietly admits victory to himself as he finds a pair of pajamas that have remained here for nearly fifteen years.
He changes right then and there, in the space between the closet and the bedroom, folds the clothes he was wearing, and places them neatly on top of his brother's woolen sweaters. Halvard then sits on the edge of the bed and counts the number of items on Henrik's nightstand. A cord that without a doubt plugs into a cellular phone, poking out from behind the wall and curling like a snake on the tabletop. There's some spare kroner scattered about, only enough to buy a couple scoops of ice cream. A glass of water half empty. There's a polaroid photo labeled “Christmas, 1991” that is framed.
The picture has Henrik in the middle, grinning from ear to ear, with his one arm around Halvard and the other around Berwald, with Jóhannes beneath him and Tino and Eduard (who Tino insisted on having that year) giving each other bunny ears off to the side. Even if Henrik was smiling the largest, the reason why this was treasured by the Dane enough to be framed was because it was one of the only pictures that existed of everyone smiling together.
Halvard cannot help but smile now, too.
He doesn't remember when he drifted off to sleep, but finds himself stirring out of it when he senses pressure on the bed, opening his eyes to see Henrik sitting on the edge, smiling at him.
“If you told me you were coming I would've stayed home,” Henrik laughs, rubbing Halvard's side softly. “I noticed your message about the paint. It's on my list of things to do.”
“I'll help you, if you want,” Halvard replies, closing his eyes again, “To make sure you do it right.”
A pause. Henrik stands up and judging by the sound of his footsteps, Halvard assumes he's going to open a drawer—ah yes, there's the sound—and undress to put on something more comfortable. The rain is still pouring down, perhaps harder now, as it drums on the roof above their heads. Was that thunder or simply the sounds of the city in motion?
Halvard knows Henrik is trying to be quiet as he slips into bed, but the sound and movement disrupts the emptiness and so Halvard rolls over to face Henrik with his eyes wide open.
“I'm not tired anymore.”
“I'm not either, Halle, but that doesn't mean we can't lay here for a while. I'm cold.”
The Norwegian mouths “fine,” but his vocal cords don't bring it to fruition. He reaches out to pull Henrik closer to his chest and softly strokes the back of his neck, humming an old folk tune as he moves his fingers. In return, Henrik slides his hands up Halvard's shirt and drums across his spine to the rhythm of the beat.
The music lasts for half an hour. Then they get up, eat dinner, and talk about the little things in life.