Chapter Text
Helvete is nicely decorated; Pelle wanders idly if Øystein's found a girl more inclined than he is to interior.
He is tired from the drive, broken up with stops for snus or food or walks every other hour, which luckily put him here just before the shop closed for the day. Eight hours in a car was torturous, and he wandered by the fourth hour how in the Hell Øystein had driven seven hours to and from for him to visit his family so many times.
Pondering that presented him with emotions he didn't like to think on but thought on anyways. There wasn't much else to do on the road but think, and worry.
His eyes are so bleary from the focus that he can barely read the records lining the shelves, identifies most of them from their cover designs. The music, some black metal that he can't name, from the record player in the corner helps wake him some. He feels something less than eager seeing a few they had signed together to Deathlike Silence, as immature as it is to feel that way over a project that he had chosen to leave Øystein with.
The same hit him over the paint marker on the door displaying the name. They had decided on Helvete together.
Why hadn't Øystein chosen something else? Why hadn't he spared him the inklings of regret?
Øystein, who — if he has not learned how to dye his roots on time or had a growth spurt, both of which Pelle doubts — is reading a zine behind the dark wooden counter and ignoring him. He didn't look up from it when the door opened, and hasn't taken a glance from what Pelle has noticed.
Finally, he grabs a Sodom record he already owns, unsure why he is relying on making the interaction seem inconspicuous — he drove all this way just to see him, and nothing else; he is uncertain how Øystein will react, regrets not calling or writing, but knows a staged one from a payphone down the street now might end in a rejection.
How would he feel, then?
He had risked everything once for Norway, and it had ended badly. He isn't sure if a re-acceptance of his presence will go well, either, but it is easier to read what Øystein feels when he's looking him in the face. It isn't the kind of thing that changes about a man.
The floor creaks as he walks up to the counter, slaps the vinyl down in front of him. Øystein looks at it, and then his eyes raise over the glasses on his nose to the buyer.
They stay there in a stare, at first judgemental and turning sharply into recognition. Pelle barely remembered he was wearing one of his school's sweaters instead of something more fashionable, his hair still long but gathered behind his neck; realizes that if Øystein hadn't recognized him with the mustache growing out on his lip, he probably wouldn't have known it was him.
Maybe. Probably.
He isn't sure how much he matters to him nowadays; the drive he chose, on his own, to take made it feel like he might still be important.
"Hej," Pelle says. The stupified look on his face brings a grin to his own. "You haven't grown a centimeter."
The zine hits the counter with a smack, Øystein raising off the stool he was sitting on — if he could raise any, because he is not much taller either way.
"Jævla svenska," he says, but the swear is too softly spoken, his corners of his mouth unfurling as he speaks. "The fuck are you doing here?"
"What, I can't visit an old friend?" He says. He knows it's a change from their last conversation; he had been sobbing. He doesn't like to think about it, and therapy won't change that.
Øystein rubs his mouth, shakes his head. "It's been years," he says, slaps Pelle's shoulder and points to the logo on his shirt. "You went to school?"
He nods. "I finished my Bachelor's last month."
"Really? What for?"
"Art history."
"Wow," Øystein says. He still sounds disbelieving, as if Pelle might say it was a joke and he is actually some bum named Hans. The shop feels small; the world feels small. "What— what are you doing here, then? Did you get a job here?"
He sounds hopeful, and at once Pelle relaxes.
He is desired.
Still, he chews at his thumb. The cuticle is raw from all he's been gnawing on it since this idea came to him during finals, the way all desperate ideas come to bright college men. He had been considering getting a new moped, too, as if he had the money for it.
"No," he says, and Øystein nods somewhat solemnly. So easy to read. "I wanted to see you."
"Any reason?"
"Not really." He looks away. It's blunt-faced to admit he came here only for Øystein; but he always did respond well to his blank admissions, whether they were positive or not, and it's hard to put up the filter he has learned to place between himself and others. "Well, there was. I felt like... things didn't go the way I wanted them to." He huffs a nervous laugh. "My therapist thought it was a good idea."
"Therapist, huh? You're sounding pretty normal," Øystein says. He looks down at the record and remembers the transaction, writes up his receipt. "You still into metal?"
"Yeah," Pelle says. "Just no band."
"We've always got one for you," he offers, and it sounds only half-joking.
"No," he says. "Not right now."
He nods. "You'll keep it in mind, though, yeah?"
"Yeah. Have you got a singer?"
Øystein pauses, rustling underneath the counter for a bag. "No, actually," he says. "He, uh, quit. Just last week."
"Fuck that."
"Yeah, it sucks." He slips the record into the bag. "Can't keep anyone, it seems." He clears his throat when he realizes how it sounded. "Not to— I don't mean—"
"I know you didn't mean me." He would've opened with it if it were worth the subtle dig.
"Okay. Right," he says. He leans on the counter, gets closer. His eyebags are heavier, as if the weight has transferred from his tired lids to beneath somewhat more awake eyes. "Let's go out for a drink and talk. I'll close up for the day."
"Can't drink," Pelle declines. "I still need to find a hotel."
"Easy. Stay with me for the night," Øystein offers, tosses his head to the right. "I got an apartment down the block. There's parking. Won't crash that far unless you get plastered."
It doesn't take much convincing. "Less money for me," he accepts. "Unless you're charging?"
"Yes," he says, grins. "200 Krone for the couch, 500 to sleep next to me."
Øystein's apartment makes it clear that Helvete's sensibilities were a fluke. It is barren save for sparse furniture, and he notices the walls of his bedroom, when he peaks through its open door, are the only ones decorated. With spotty posters and upturned religious artifacts, at that.
"Making good money?" Pelle asks. His speech is not slurred by the alcohol they'd ordered at the diner, but by the exhaustion setting in. He wormed his way out of talking much, dedicating himself to eating his burger in hopes that it might give him some energy — but it had only made him more tired, and the warmth of the beer in his veins had made it doubly worse.
Øystein kicks the door closed behind them, stumbles and he catches him. "Yes," he says. "Good enough."
"Big place."
"Only feels that way because it's empty," he says. "Do you want another beer?" Pelle knows it will put him sleep; so he accepts. Øystein catches him looking to the kitchen, puts a hand on his chest to nudge him towards the couch. "Sit down, I'll get them."
It is a comfortable couch, or maybe it's just soft enough to feel nice after sitting on stiff surfaces all day. Pelle feels for the tin in his pocket, packing a fresh packet of snus in his gum while Øystein rounds the corner to set two beers on the messy coffee table. He's never learned how to housekeep any better than he could, that is for certain. Things are not precisely dirty — although the record player in the corner is dusty in the crevices — but cluttered.
"So what the hell have you been doing?" Øystein asks. He shrugs his jacket off and lays it over the back of the sofa, gets up again to turn the television set on before finally settling down next to Pelle.
He shrugs. "School, mostly."
"No girlfriends?" He teases.
"Hundreds," he says dryly, cracks the bottle open. "Nothing that went anywhere."
"Swedish girls not pretty enough?"
"No, they're fine," Pelle says. He glances at the news report for the moment before Øystein begins flicking through the channels. "I don't think I like women, really."
He laughs. "What a way to ease me in."
"What, you're not a fag anymore?"
Øystein looks at him. "Unfortunately am," he admits. "No boyfriends either?"
"Nothing that went anywhere," he repeats. He curls his leg up to his chest, picks at the seam of his jeans. They are getting intensely uncomfortable to wear; he has been awake and dressed since four-thirty this morning. "What about you?"
"I wasn't really looking," he says, and moves on quickly. "What about your brother?"
"He's alright."
"Dad?"
"Just fine."
"Has anything happened?" He teases.
Pelle smiles some. "Not really." He takes another drink. "They put me on pills. Gave me a therapist. She's alright. Got my license. Got my GED. Went to college for a few years." He turns from the channel surfing back to him. "Now I'm on your couch."
"Good. Good you're on medication," he says, raises his brows at him. "It helps?"
"Yeah."
"Good," he repeats. His gaze lingers on his face. "You, uh— you look good, Pelle. Very good."
"You look the same," Pelle says. He realizes it sounds awful, amends himself: "I mean, it's not bad. You looked fine before."
Øystein snorts. "I see why those girls didn't stick around."
"You look like shit, actually, that's what I meant."
He laughs, and Pelle smiles. Øystein really hasn't changed much; he still wears black, still has his hair long and gangly. The biggest difference is the facial hair that finally sprouted. It suits him, although Pelle dislikes the soul patch forming at his chin, thinks it'd be better if he grew out his whole jaw.
There's something older in his eyes, too, but it doesn't feel entirely like maturity; from the sounds of it, he's come during a bad time, and he can see he has frown lines forming around his mouth. He's told him about Varg, and the business with Mayhem going downhill, and the stresses of running DSP on his own.
Øystein looks as busy as he must feel.
Pelle feels that he has done very little, despite all he has been doing. School was busywork mostly for pleasing his parents; he doesn't need a degree, really, to make comics — but he supposes a job will ease the burden on his father, and he's already done it.
"Are you going back for another degree?"
"No," Pelle says. "I think I'll find a gig and hopefully I write a hit before I need another."
He smiles. "Comics?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad," Øystein says. "I always liked your art. Have you got any on you?"
"No," Pelle admits, feeling bad, now — he should've known Øystein, if he accepted him back in his circle, would like to see something he's made. "But I've drafted some things."
"Will you mail me copies?" He asks. "I'll put them in the store."
"Sure."
He stretches, sits his bottle down and curls up beside Øystein, laying his head on the back of the couch. His back aches, and he twists some to rid the soreness.
It feels natural to be in his presence again, as if he had only been gone for a few days; it's strange how easy it is to talk to him, still, and how he doesn't flinch when he touches him just like he used to. Øystein seems equally as unbothered by it, has looked happier than he remembers him ever being to just hang out.
He supposes it's the natural way for him to act — at the end of the day, he hadn't wanted Pelle to leave. He feels guilt, alright, if only a little, knowing that it was for his best; but Øystein, even if he is busy, seems too happy to see him.
And, really, he looks worked half to death.
"Have you been good?" He asks. He's more comfortable asking these things, now; feels some genuine concern.
Øystein looks over. He had settled on a sitcom that Pelle cannot understand, not under the influence of alcohol.
"Yeah," he says, nods. He hesitates, brings his beer to his lips. "I missed you, man."
Pelle smiles some, and he mimics him. It is somewhat more difficult to say: "I missed you, too."
He did.
His business with Øystein felt unfinished, and he had yet to find anyone who, despite all of his flaws, bounced off of him the same way he does. He'd come to the realization and begrudging acceptance that that was something which he wanted in life: a natural connection. And its scarcity was beginning to convince him he may not find another person who could guess his thoughts, or remember all the things about him that he wanted remembered.
It had been lonely. It had been lonely for a long time before he left Norway.
He takes a drink. "How long are you staying?"
Pelle sighs. "I didn't think that far ahead," he says, brushes his hair behind his ear. "I thought you'd go either way. Maybe you'd hate me."
"What?" He bulks. "I don't hate you! Why would I?"
He chews on his thumb, turns his eyes down to where Øystein's hands are gathered in his lap. Instead of listing the many reasons he could, a long list he had been mentally going through and reasoning with during the trip, he goes with action: "You never wrote me."
Øystein's throat bobs, and his tension falls some. "I guess I thought you'd hate me, too."
"I did, for a while."
"Oh," he says. "Fair enough. I was kind of an asshole."
Pelle huffs a laugh. "We were kids," he says.
"Still an asshole," Øystein says, and Pelle is relieved he does, because it is true. He licks his lips. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry things turned out how they did."
"They were okay in the end," Pelle says. "Right?"
His mouth presses firm, and then he smiles. "Right."
His eyes close almost as soon as a silence ensues. He can't make out the television's words, unpracticed in Norwegian; he'd learned a few phrases from a girl at school, but that was his first year, as if life wanted her crassness and thick accent to remind him of Øystien.