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Gylve has a tendency to dramatise the mundane, his penchant for such theatrics always ended sourly but Ted could never hold it against him. They’ve been friends for… god how many years has it been? And so maybe a more self indulgent part of him refuses to let go of the wolf. It would be a waste after all. But maintaining a partnership under such circumstances shouldn’t usually warrant putting up with Gylve’s more abrasive outbursts…. and yet he does.
This odd entanglement manifests itself in peculiar ways. Ted was never one to engage with his band’s affairs, always quick to run and hide in the forest, far from greedy hounds with prying hands - A guy at Helvete had stood starstruck when speaking to him once, the Blaze vinyl clutched so hard that Ted wanted to reprimand the kid for treating his record in such a way - but when Peaceville shoves magazines down his post box, it surprisingly takes little to no effort to find the required pages. He argues it’s because he would feel bad for ignoring publications that safely reach his awkwardly situated home but finds himself chuckling at yet another one of Gylve’s rambling. And though he’d roll his eyes at the Uriah Heep worship, his vision would get cloudy seeing a headline claiming “Darkthrone does not sleep - it only waits”. It's somewhat true, their early years a listless haze that both cannot recall without the edges of their hard exteriors crumbling.
So really Ted isn’t all that surprised he accepted Gylve’s snarling so readily. Maybe it already started the day he walked into that damn rehearsal space (read dump ) and saw that Gylve hadn’t gone through with the haircut his mother was forcing on him. Upon insistent prodding he’d shyly admit that he was finally allowed to grow it out thanks to a certain guitarist - Ted too caught up with the light pink that dusted the cheeks of the other to fully understand the meaning of the sentence, merely chalking it up to Mrs Nagell being taken with Ivar and his curls now that it reached the other boy’s shoulders.
Many years later in the middle of an impromptu sleepover at Gylve’s apartment only does it click and he kicks himself for not realising faster - the image of a gangly “Fenriz'' preparing for war all to fit in with some kid who named himself Nocturno Culto scorched his mind. But by the time the revelation hit, Gylve’s hair had long grown out of the awkward fringe and did little to hide the deep purple under his eyes unless he purposely moved it in front of his face the way that made Ted’s insides churn.
So maybe this was when Ted began forgiving him so easily. ‘91 was, after all, a tough year for all of them mentally - the scene they once longed to join no longer resembled what it promised. (A certain blonde’s death had a tipsy Ted checking up on his friend after every night during their Danish and Finnish tour. He didn’t want to take any chances and be too late with the Heimlich). But Gylve braved on with determination that seemed to dull the sun’s glow. This meant an unreal amount of gatherings and get-togethers at his place that never allowed Ted to fully realise he had moved away from Oslo. Ted, ever the gentleman, offered to stay and clean up one night knowing that Gylve was merely chasing the glowing orb with such voracious appetite due to losing a part of their rhythm section and Fenriz, forgoing the attitude brought upon by his newly adopted moniker, solemnly gave him permission to stay by making space on the dubiously stained sofa.
When the full moon cast pale waves onto the egg white walls across them, a bottle rattled off the sticky coffee table and landed on the floor with a muted thud. Its content surely spilled all over the rough carpet and it reminded them of how much cheap liquor coursed through their veins. This is when the distinction between desperate Gylve and playful Fenriz blur. Gylve, who spent more time listening to music than sleeping, began to sonically fuse with Loki's harsh tongued son and Ted didn’t know what to feel about the change.
Sure, Gylve had always been a bit of an awkwardly social kid but he was never the type to lead keg parties. Though Ted supposes they were kids then and could never afford this kind of rambunctious lifestyle, yet part of him knows the alcohol that appeared during those years were merely there to numb. Gylve’s hands that beat the ever living shit out of the kit, softly threaded through Ted’s hair that night, whilst he muttered something sappy about misfits sticking together but also scorned the hoard mentality of it all in the same breath - ever the concept of contradiction epitomised. Ted, feeling the need to defend himself, states he stays through all the bullshit - Gylve’s excessive drinking, self medicating and general nihilism - because he wants to.
“I may be living like a slob in the forest man but I always come back for the music,” for you he so desperately wanted to say but Gylve (or was it Fenriz?) finds the answer good enough as the hand in his hair reaches the back of Ted’s white hot nape and chaos ensued. ‘91 was a tough year for all of them…. But nothing could prepare him for ‘92.
That night was never spoken of again and when new year strikes news of Blaze finally being released is all that takes up their time. Do they go on tour? It would be much too difficult now that Dag had disappeared, gone were the days of Soulside Journey where Bootleg welcomed them with open hands. Now they would have to resort to playing at… Aarseth’s basement? Don’t get Ted wrong, he thoroughly respected the man but he was never one for blind worship unless it involved a different dark haired genius and judging by the way Ivar shifted on his feet whenever they stopped by in Oslo, he too wasn’t all that keen on getting comfortable in the concrete jungle with raging church fires. In the end they decided to do what they do best; make music… and make music they did. However, as the months went by it became glaringly obvious that things were definitely never going to be the same.
He remembers Ivar pulling him to the side in the middle of recording, the heat slowly creeping in during June made the other’s clammy grip on his wrist ever so slightly uncomfortable but Ted was a good sport - so he let the other drag him wherever he pleased much like that one time at Sunlight Studios when he had let Ivar do the same whilst following Uffe to retrieve some rig the Swede had brought along. Once in a suitably isolated area, Ivar utters the impossible.
“I don't want to do this anymore,” before Ted could even attempt to rationalise what he had heard, the curly haired man continued “I'll finish my shit before leaving so don’t worry about having to play lead.”
Ted wanted to come up with some sort of excuse to change the man’s mind but all that filled the air was silence to which Ivar snorted. “See, you’ll be fine without me - you have that idiot with you after all,” he tried to punctuate levely but the second he mentioned the drummer his voice wavered. Ted could do nothing but stare at him blankly for a few more seconds before finally remodelling his slush-like brain to come up with ‘why are you telling me this?’ or something of the like. Ivar simply shrugged, messed up Ted’s hair and made his way back.
When Ted finally found the energy to return, Gylve had finished tracking his drums and despite maintaining eye contact with the floor, the desire to know what had occurred rolled off his being like vicious waves. The blonde, who previously would have folded to such an overt request, held his tongue. Gylve (of course) took this to heart, the booze he had snuck in was quickly depleted making him nod off into oblivion and Ted almost felt bad but the faint humming of static like guitar leaking through the soundproof room in Creative studios grounded him each time he wanted to utter the words. It's just you and me from now on .
And he was right, the last time Ted ever heard a mention of Ivar was through a call. Something about an accident which usually would have made him rush to the other’s aid but he was too exhausted from the barking he had endured. Gylve was all teeth after finding out about yet another departure from the band but the blonde could tell it was misplaced anger. Who he really was mad at was himself for letting it get so bad they slipped through his fingers and if Ted could offer a brief escape from his self depreciation then he’d take it all on. What he couldn’t take, however, was being the other one . They say when people are vulnerable around you, they have the utmost trust in you but maybe Gylve just didn’t want his girl to see him smoke hash because well.. Gylve was Gylve. He held weirdly uptight morals, had that ordinary postal industry job and normal interests. (He claims he likes modern art for all its absurd intricacies and revels in the way it pisses off his parents but he fails to realise he still carries some of the rigidity he was brought up with, guess old habits die hard).
Although the first one folded, there was another in 2013 and so swapping rings between hands was commonplace, they got in the way of playing after all. But seeing the silver band still stung after all these years.
It stung the hardest when Gylve first tied the knot in late ‘92. All Ted could think of was how this time last year when he had kissed him senseless in the very same apartment the newlyweds were parading round. Thus, Ted promptly stays out of Oslo for good and the riffs never came that year. No, they never did and yet Gylve still nudged him like an ignored puppy - sending him letters, vinyls and inviting him out to the marka and though Ted did feel bad occasionally about his reclusivity, he reasoned that he was the one desperately trying to build a family whilst Gylve already had one.
His dreams would come true later on of course. First the wife, then the kids and then the job as a TA at the local school. He had matched Gylve an eye for an eye, performing the same normalcy his ‘buddy’ did whilst deep down both of them were grasping at loose threads to keep everything together. Maybe Ted had hoped Gylve would finally grow jealous of him for once now that he had a family of his own taking up most of his time but ‘Fenriz’ always played it cool.
At least until the shit show that went down in ‘93. He had hoped Gylve would have pounced on him the second the news of the murder spread, hoped he’d abuse his kindness just once more but Gylve had turned to arguably the worst possible person to consult. Belatedly, he realises that both of them were named after wolves and of course the idiot would seek solace in one of his kind than the night. (When Sigurd asks him what he’d like to be known as on Nemesis Devina in ‘95, a cruel part of him speaks, ” kveldulv would do”. That’d show him.)
But no, the pouncing never came and he only briefly saw him at the funeral. He was handed an 8 track tape out of nowhere whilst Shine on you crazy diamond blared on in the background, which was quite the experience. Gylve hadn’t made eye contact with him when he did it, merely placed it in his hands and fucked off to where ever the Valhall brothers were and Ted took that as a sign to ditch the “let’s get sloshed for Euronymous” after party and listen to whatever the man had come up with. Upon reaching his tape deck however, all optimism was lost. What do you mean he’s writing the lyrics? Didn’t he just murder a guy? Did you not want me to sing your lyrics only? Must the man end things between us in flames as well?
“I’ll do it but I’m not going to lie, I’m not a fan of involving him into this,” Ted was easily persuaded, because of course he was. Plus, it must have been difficult reaching that fucker in the middle of a murder trial so really he was being ‘efficient’. Gylve’s reply was tinged with static and euphoria which instantly made Ted feel better about his decision. Their talk was brief, both preoccupied with being ‘normal functioning adults’ (whatever that means) to have hour long conversations like they did as teenagers but that was fine. This was fine. Things change.
Sometimes for the better, most times for the worse. When Transilvanian Hunger was released Ted was deep into his self imposed reclusion, the only fragment of Gylve being a thin unopened package which he could only assume is the vinyl. Once he grew tired of letting the record rot on his kitchen counter, he was greeted with more than he could stomach. Norsk Aris... Nevermind, the words stung a lot more than he realised. His prized fragment reeked of another mutt and Ted promptly shut it off after enduring the last few drones of the title track.
Peaceville didn’t take too kindly to it either, Ted can’t say he blamed them but Gylve took the brunt for it all because well... he wasn't the slob living in the forest. He was in Oslo; living, breathing, yearning for something out of his reach (Ted still can't figure out what). When they left them for Moonfog something definitely shifted. Gylve disappeared but Fenriz lived on, made Elm Street his new home and began making a name for himself around the world. His penchant for such theatrics omnipresent, the way he dramatises the mundane sensational.