Work Text:
Odin knew that spinning around on stage would come back to bite him one day. One minute, he’s dancing around, twirling on the spot as he plays his bass during Bob’s guitar solo, and in the next, his foot tangles around the cable trailing from his bass and Odin trips. He staggers forward, trying and failing to regain his balance, not helped by his bass weighing him down. And then he falls over in front of over a thousand people.
Odin throws his hands out to slow his fall, his palms bruising as they hit the ground. When the rest of his body catches up, slamming into the ground hard enough to make something in his bass snap, Odin’s hands get crushed under his bass and his own weight, his wrist crunching as pain shoots up his arm. But that pain is eclipsed when his forehead slams into the edge of the raised platform where Tor’s drumkit stands, and agony explodes through his head.
And everything starts to go fuzzy, his vision going dark and his hearing dulling… before Odin passes out.
---
When Odin trips, Bob continues to play, expecting him to regain his footing and then laugh at the close call. But when Odin goes down hard, so hard that something happens to his bass and sends a horrific feedback loop through his amp, and then he lies there unmoving, Bob’s hands let go of his guitar.
“Shit!” Tor says, also abandoning his drums.
Taking off his guitar, Bob rushes over to Odin, crouching at his friend’s side. He puts a hand on Odin’s shoulder but gets no response. But thankfully, Odin only stays unconscious for perhaps twenty seconds, before he starts moving again.
“Oh, thank fuck…” Bob says, and Tor’s expression seems to say the same thing as he rushes over.
He expects Odin to moan in pain or writhe on the floor, given how hard he went down. But to Bob’s shock, Odin instead slowly sits up, staring at his surroundings with a dazed expression on his face. Blood leaks from a small gash above Odin’s right eyebrow, his face already swelling up and sure to develop into an impressive black eye. It must be hurting his injured face, because Odin tugs off his eyepatch with his good hand, smearing blood across his forehead. The neck of his bass has snapped, dangling from the rest of the instrument by the strings. Bob knows how strong a bass is, so he knows Odin went down hard to cause that damage. But more importantly than his bass is Odin’s right wrist, which has gone a disturbing shade of red and bulges in all the wrong places. It must be broken.
Despite his injuries, Odin doesn’t seem all that upset. He doesn’t look with it at all, his eyes glassy as he stares at Bob. And in a slow, slurred voice so unlike his own, Odin says, “Why’s the music stopped?”
“Bro, you hit your head and passed the fuck out,” Tor says, “of course we stopped playing.”
“Huh?” Odin says. Slowly, he glances down at his broken bass and busted wrist, his eyes widening. “What… what happened?”
“I literally just explained it, bro,” Tor says, and Bob can tell how hard he tries to hide his rising frustration (he always gets grumpy when stressed, and seeing his big brother all dazed and injured is certainly a reason to be stressed).
Luckily, Bob is better at controlling his emotions. Squeezing Odin’s shoulder, he explains, “You fell over, Odin. Hit your head pretty hard. You were unconscious for a few seconds, but you’re awake again. I think you broke your wrist.”
“You think?” Tor mutters sarcastically. Bob ignores him.
Odin tries to twitch his fingers, and a wince runs through him. Flinching must hurt his head, because his eyes go out of focus, and he wobbles on the spot. Bob holds him tighter.
“Oh… fuck…” Odin says, finally noticing the state he’s in. Are the delayed reactions a symptom of that bash on the head? “That’s bad…”
“Bro?” Tor says, creeping closer to his brother. He puts his hand under Odin’s chin, forcing Odin to look into his eyes; his brother doesn’t shove him away like he would normally, just staring at Tor with that vacant look in his eyes. When he gets no response from Odin, Tor looks at Bob. “What the fuck is wrong with him?”
“I think he’s concussed. It makes people act weird,” Bob says, trying to remember what little he knows about first aid.
Before Tor can reply, some of their crew begin to rush onto the stage, checking up on the band and unplugging Odin’s broken bass. One of them takes the microphone and begins to talk to the audience, explaining that the rest of the show is called off, but Bob doesn’t really listen. Someone wearing a high-visibility jacket kneels down in front of Odin, and Tor squares his shoulders, shifting closer to his big brother. Bob thinks it’s cute how protective the Anderson Brothers are of each other, but he would never say it to them.
“Mister Anderson, can you tell me how you’re feeling?” the first aid officer asks.
Odin shrugs the shoulder on his uninjured arm. “Uh… in pain?” he says, blinking slowly.
The man seems to realise that he won’t get much more out of Odin in this state, turning to Bob instead to get any necessary information about Odin. Bob complies, telling the man what happened and what they think is wrong with Odin. As Tor watches the man with a fierce stare, obviously ready to yell if the guy hurts Odin in any way, the first aid officer dabs disinfectant onto the gash on Odin’s forehead. Odin inhales sharply, but weakly slaps Tor’s leg with his good hand before his brother can lash out. Despite his concussion, Odin clearly understands how close to snapping Tor is and wants to prevent that happening. Afterwards, the first aid officer takes out a large square of white fabric and folds it into a sling, carefully supporting Odin’s wrist and then tying a knot behind his neck to keep the sling in place.
“Does he need to go to hospital?” Tor asks.
“Of course,” the man says. “This is just to keep his wound clean and his wrist supported in the meantime. But he absolutely needs proper medical attention. Would you like me to call an ambulance?”
“Don’t need an ambulance,” Odin says, surprisingly stubborn for a man who took a hard blow to the head.
“Well, why don’t we take the bus?” Bob suggests. After all, just driving to the hospital should be quicker than waiting for an ambulance to pick them up. And it beats having an argument.
Odin sighs. “Fine…”
He still doesn’t seem to understand just how injured he is. Bob remembers hearing that people with head injuries can be difficult patients, and he understands that now.
“Thanks for the help,” Bob says to the first aid officer. “Tor, mind helping me get him up?”
“What d’you mean help you?” Tor says. “You’re the shortass here, hippie-boy. It’ll be you helping me.”
Bob rolls his eyes, but he smiles when Odin giggles. Tor grins, obviously glad his brother laughed at them bickering like he always does.
“Okay, then, bro, let’s get you up,” Tor says to his brother, slipping his hand under Odin’s uninjured arm.
Unable to take Odin’s other arm, Bob instead grabs Odin by the back of his belt, pulling hard to help Tor get Odin on his feet. Once standing, Odin sways on the spot, so Bob keeps hold of his belt in case he falls. Odin groans, screwing his eyes up as he takes slow, heavy breaths through gritted teeth. He must be in so much pain.
“Ready, bro?” Tor says.
“Uh-huh,” Odin gasps, opening his eyes again. “Let’s, let’s fucking do this…”
And Bob and Tor slowly stagger off stage with Odin awkwardly supported between them. They veer through the maze that is backstage, being very mindful of the way Odin sometimes drags his feet or looks like he might throw up. Honestly, Bob is just impressed that Odin holds himself together as well as he does. A lot of people would be sobbing in a heap on the floor right now.
Eventually, they reach a door back outside, spying where their crew parked the tour bus. Their driver leans against the outside of the bus, smoking a cigarette, and he looks startled when he notices them approaching. But, to his credit, he gets over it quickly and says, “Let me guess? You need a ride to the hospital?” Being so down to earth must be part of driving the Old Gods of Asgard all over the place and putting up with their antics.
“Yes please,” Bob says awkwardly, and Tor snorts.
And as their driver unlocks the door, Bob and Tor try to work out how to get Odin onto the bus.
---
After a lot of hassle getting onto the bus, Odin slumps awkwardly in his seat, the knot of the sling pressed against the back of his neck in a way that really irritates him. His head throbs, the skin on his forehead and around his eye hot and swollen, and pain radiates through his wrist, shooting up his arm and down his fingers. He still can’t believe that happened. He really tripped on stage and fell hard enough to do all this damage to himself. And his bass. Odin sighs. He knows that his bass is not the priority right now, but it’s still shit that it broke. He was very fond of that specific bass.
As their driver takes them to the hospital, Bob and Tor sit opposite him, his brother leaning his elbows on the table between their seats as Bob stares out the window (and pretends he doesn’t look at Odin out of the corner of his eye). Odin doesn’t have any memories of what happened—between tripping on stage and being patched up by the first aid officer is all a blur to him. According to Bob, he was incredibly spaced out and acted almost drunk. He still doesn’t feel fully with it, so Odin can believe that he acted that way.
Letting out a long sigh, Odin stares down at his sling, remembering how fucking disturbing it was to see his wrist bent out of shape. He hasn’t broken a bone since he was a kid, and he forgot how scary it is—and how fucking much it hurts.
As the minutes tick by, Odin becomes aware of a prickling sensation in his guts. The feeling gets stronger, becoming waves of churning nausea that spread through his stomach. Very conscious of how much the bus sways as it speeds along the road, Odin swallows hard, hoping he won’t be sick. He tries to fight the nausea, but it just gets stronger and stronger, his stomach rolling inside him. His mouth fills with spit and Odin swallows it, but the saliva just floods his mouth again. And when his stomach cramps, Odin realises what’s about to happen.
But he’s far too dizzy and unsteady to make a dash to their tiny bathroom. Odin looks at his brother, wondering if he can get into Tor’s mind to ask for help—because he doesn’t trust himself not to throw up if he opens his mouth.
“Odin, are you okay?” Bob says. Odin wonders if he looks even paler and clammier than he did before.
“Shit, bro, what’s wrong?” Tor asks.
Odin doesn’t respond, too focused on a powerful retch that makes his eyes water. Vomit rises in his throat and Odin swallows back the disgusting stuff, but that only makes the nausea worse. He tries to get to his feet, but he wobbles and knocks the elbow of his broken arm against the edge of the table, sending pain shooting through his fractured wrist. And as Odin’s mouth opens to yell in pain… he pukes all over his sling and the table.
“Fuck!” he hears Bob say, and they both start moving, but Odin tunes them out.
He screws his eyes shut as another wave of nausea hits him, throwing up again. Acid burns his mouth and his eyes water from the effort of being sick, tears leaking out from behind his closed eyelids. Fuck, this is humiliating.
“Jesus, bro, why didn’t you say anything?” Tor says in his head.
“I didn’t think I’d actually puke,” Odin replies.
Beyond the roar of his own blood in his ears, Odin hears something rustle. When he cracks open his watery eyes, he notices Bob holding a plastic bag under his chin, so the next time Odin heaves, he throws up into the bag instead.
But what really shocks him is when Tor’s fingers begin to comb his hair. He isn’t surprised by the gesture—for as long as he can remember, his little brother tried to comfort him when he was sick by stroking Odin’s hair for him, copying their mom, and Tor never grew out of it—but he is shocked to see Tor do it in front of Bob. It’s the sort of sappy gesture that Tor would rather die than do in front of someone else. And yet, here he is, comforting Odin in front of their bandmate.
“I care more about how you feel than what he might think,” Tor says inside his mind, clearly having eavesdropped on Odin’s thoughts, as he continues combing his fingers through Odin’s sweaty hair.
Despite his nausea and pain, Odin manages to smile. Bob stares at him with a puzzled expression on his face.
When Odin finally stops being sick, left dry heaving and spitting into the plastic bag, he shudders for breath, exhausted. He groans, letting his head flop back against the headrest of his chair.
“Fuck… Sorry about that, guys,” he says, offering a sheepish smile.
“No need to apologise, man,” Bob says, tying the handles of the soiled bag into a knot and moving it away from Odin before the smell makes him sick again. “It’s normal. I got a concussion when I was… maybe fourteen, and I puked a lot. Don’t worry about it.”
“What he said,” Tor says.
“Right, let’s clean this place up,” Bob says. He rushes to the front of the bus, speaking to the driver in a voice too quiet for Odin to hear. Odin then watches Bob reach under one of the front seats, revealing a box full of many cleaning products. Including a big pack of paper towels and some sort of disinfectant. When he returns, he says, “Just give me a sec and I’ll sort this out for you, Odin.”
Odin wants to tell them to stop fussing, but that ship has sailed. Besides, even if he had two working arms, he wouldn’t want to clean up vomit, so he doesn’t really mind letting Bob do the disgusting job for him. He and Tor watch Bob use the disinfectant and paper towels to mop up Odin’s puke and leave the table looking nicer than it ever did.
“That is the least rock-and-roll thing I’ve ever seen,” Tor says as Bob dumps the soiled tissues into another bag, and Odin snorts. Bob raises an eyebrow. With that task over, Tor points at Odin’s ruined sling and says, “Now, let’s get this gross thing off you, bro.”
Reluctantly, Odin raises his head again, allowing Tor to reach the knot holding the sling together.
“Lemme do this first,” Bob says, reaching across the table (and making his shirt smell of the disinfectant on the still-damp surface) and carefully grasping Odin’s elbow with one hand, cupping the joint with his palm.
Tor fumbles for a few seconds, but finally manages to undo the knot. And they both understand Bob’s action when the sling goes slack and Odin’s elbow doesn’t drop—which is just as well, because that happening would have jarred his wrist horribly. It’s good that someone here knows what the fuck he is doing. After that, Bob slides down the zipper on Odin’s leather jacket to just above his bellybutton, and helps Odin slot his arm through the gap. It takes Odin’s concussed mind far too long to realise Bob made a makeshift sling for him.
“Thanks, man,” Odin says. “And you too, bro.”
“Oh, shut it,” Tor says with an eye roll, but he rubs Odin’s head again.
“No problem,” Bob says, smiling.
“See, bro, that’s how you answer someone,” Odin says, using his good hand to point at Bob, who was polite, unlike Tor.
“Fuck off, bro,” Tor says, but he laughs.
And despite how awful he feels, Odin manages to laugh too.
---
When their driver stops the bus outside the Emergency Room, Odin reluctantly lets Bob and Tor help him to his feet. Bob holds his good arm at the elbow whilst Tor keeps a hand on his back, his bandmates carefully steering Odin to the front of the bus and down the steps. He doesn’t feel like he has full control over his limbs, so Odin secretly appreciates the help.
They probably look ridiculous walking into the ER, Odin realises when he remembers they’re all still in their stage clothes. Tor especially, who is fucking shirtless except for a vest covered in patches. Although Odin probably looks even worse with his busted arm tucked into his jacket and his forehead covered in a bright white dressing (and he hasn’t checked his reflection yet, but Odin suspects he has congealing blood all over his eyelid and cheek).
Tor helps Odin into a seat, squeezing his shoulder when sitting down jolts Odin’s arm and pulls a wince from his throat. Normally, the Anderson brothers tease each other relentlessly, but at times like this, they always look after each other.
“Of course we do, dumbass,” Tor points out. “We’re family.”
As Odin smiles weakly, he watches Bob go up to the counter. Odin doesn’t really know how the ER works, and his brain certainly isn’t going to recall what little he might remember in this state, but even he assumes Bob must be checking Odin in or something like that. Eventually, Bob comes back, dropping into the seat beside Odin.
“Right, they said they’ll squeeze you in when they can,” Bob says. He glances around the waiting room, which thankfully isn’t too busy.
Odin nods and immediately regrets it when his head pounds and the room spins.
“Careful, you idiot,” Tor says fondly.
“Fuck, I feel awful…” Odin mutters.
“I’m not surprised,” Bob says. “You went down hard. Honestly, you’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Odin says. But he understands what Bob means.
Honestly, he’s almost grateful that all he got was a cut on the forehead and a broken wrist. But that doesn’t stop him feeling like utter shit.
---
After maybe… half an hour (Odin can’t see a clock from here and he doesn’t really care how much time has passed; he’s just in pain and wants the pain to stop), someone calls Odin’s name. Again, his bandmates help him stand up, keeping Odin stable as he walks at a painfully slow pace toward the doorway. The nurse leads Odin into a booth and then not-so-subtly asks Tor and Bob to get out of her way. Tor looks ready to argue, but Odin insists he’s okay on his own.
“Just tell me here if you need us, bro,” Tor says in his head as he and Bob walk away.
Odin struggles not to space out again as the nurse asks him questions and checks him over, his head just aching and aching. He tries not to wince when she shines a bright light into his eyes, and he very much does wince when she examines his arm. The nurse confirms what they already suspected—that his wrist is broken—and then peels the dressing away from his forehead. Odin catches sight of the inside of the dressing, a little startled by how much of his blood is no longer inside his body.
“Yes, this is going to need stitches,” she says.
And soon enough, Odin gets his forehead stitched up with no anaesthetic, gritting his teeth and curling his toes as the needle pierces his skin and pulls the edges of the gash back together. Luckily, he only needs three stitches, so the pain doesn’t last long, but his forehead is left feeling weirdly stiff with his skin pulled taut like that. Then the nurse places a new dressing over the wound, securing it to his aching forehead with sticky tape.
After that, Odin gets sent for an X-ray. He refuses to use a wheelchair when the nurse sees him wobble, stubbornly making his way to radiology without falling over. He must wait for several more minutes, but Odin soon gets an X-ray of his arm, the results showing two small bones in his wrist are fractured. The nurse reassures him that he won’t need surgery and it should heal just fine. Which is a relief to a man who plays the bass for a living.
When they set his wrist, Odin nearly pukes again, holding back a yell as his bones shift back into place with a disgusting click. He watches with curiosity as the strips of fabric are dunked into cloudy water and then wrapped around his arm, the cast reaching from below his elbow right down to the first knuckles on his hand. It feels weird, but also rather soothing to have something so cold and wet pressed against his swollen skin. It takes a while for the cast to set, but Odin doesn’t really care; he’s used to waiting in the hospital by now.
And as he watches the cast dry, it occurs to Odin that this thing won’t stay plain for long. The moment his brother gets hold of a pen, Odin will end up with a dick drawn on his cast, that’s for sure.
---
By the time he makes it back to his booth in the ER, the fresh cast a stark white against his arm, Odin feels like he might puke. He groans as he slumps on the bed, so fucking tired from walking such a short distance. It’s hard to believe that only a couple of hours ago Odin was jumping around on stage and having a great time.
Just thinking about performing makes something occur to him, the thought hitting Odin’s groggy mind like a slap to the face. How the fuck are they going to continue the tour when Odin can’t play the bass for weeks? Fuck, he doesn’t want this stupid accident to screw everything up.
“Mister Anderson?” a nurse says, startling Odin from his thoughts. “Your friends keep asking if they can see you,” she continues, and Odin suspects that ‘asking’ is not the correct word to explain Tor’s demanding behaviour, but she doesn’t say so to be polite. “Do you want them to come in?”
Odin almost nods but stops himself in time. “Please,” he mumbles, shielding his eyes with his good arm whilst being very careful not to touch his bruises. Bright lights don’t usually bother him, but right now, they just make his headache worse.
Barely thirty seconds later, he hears footsteps, and then Tor’s loud voice as he bursts into the booth.
“Bro! How’re you feeling?” Tor says, his voice seeming to echo around the booth. The loud noise vibrates around Odin’s aching skull, and he grits his jaw.
“Tor, keep your voice down,” Bob whispers, obviously noticing Odin’s distress.
“Oh shit…” Tor mutters. “Sorry, bro,” he adds in Odin’s head.
“It’s fine.” Odin replies. He knows Tor didn’t do it on purpose.
“Anyway, how are you feeling, bro?” Tor asks at a less painful volume.
“I’ve been better, let’s put it that way,” Odin says, letting out a weak chuckle. “Two broken bones in my wrist, so they gave me this cast. And the cut needed… three stitches. Having a needle stabbed into your face hurts like fuck.”
Bob winces. “I can imagine. Have they given you anything for the pain?”
“Uh… no…” Odin mumbles, realising that he wasn’t even offered pain relief at any point, let alone given it.
“Fuck’s sake,” Tor sighs. And before Odin can stop him, he runs off to bother a nurse.
“Sorry, I didn’t think that would set him off,” Bob says as they both hear the protective anger in Tor’s voice whilst he demands someone to give his brother painkillers.
“It’s cool, man,” Odin says. Finally, he removes his arm from over his eyes, just deciding to deal with the bright lights.
A couple of minutes later, Tor returns with a nurse in tow, who asks Odin if he’d like some pain relief (“Obviously,” Tor mutters, and Odin almost laughs at how grumpy he gets when he’s worried) and apologises that her colleagues neglected to offer him any before. Part of Odin wants to tough it out, but there’s no point; Tor and Bob already saw him puke and had to help him walk (not to mention watching him trip and fall flat on his face during a concert), so they know how bad he feels. So, what’s the point in putting himself through more pain?
So, Odin nods (and regrets it when the room spins—he really needs to remember to stop doing that) and allows the nurse to fetch him some strong drugs and a cup of water. As he swallows the pills, the cool water soothes his aching throat, and Odin lets out a sigh.
He can’t stop thinking about how his injuries will fuck up their upcoming shows. So, when the nurse leaves, looking relieved to be away from Tor, Odin takes the opportunity to voice this worry to Tor and Bob.
“What the fuck are we gonna do about performing?” he asks, staring down at the plaster cast on his wrist as he waits for the painkillers to kick in.
“Well, first we’re gonna make sure you’re well enough to sing,” Bob says, “right, Tor?”
Tor nods, folding his arms across his chest. “Yep. Not letting you go out on stage just to faint, bro.”
Odin raises his eyebrows (or tries to, because the skin above one of them is tight and sore from the stitches) at how fucking fussy they’re both being. “Okay, okay, I get it. But then what…? I can’t play bass like this.”
“We’ve got an idea,” Bob says. “Basically, I’m gonna go back to the studio and re-record all the bass pieces for our setlist, and then we’ll play it as a backing track at the shows until your wrist’s better. That sound good to you?”
Odin glances at Bob and Tor, wondering when they had this conversation. Probably when he was getting patched up. “That… works,” he says, grateful that Bob can play bass as well as guitar (Odin can play guitar too, but he considers his skills inferior to Bob’s… but Bob’s bass skills are incredible too), otherwise they would be totally fucked. “Good idea, guys.”
His bandmates smile at him, and Odin grins back for the first time in what feels like forever.
---
Within a few hours, after being monitored closely by nurses, Odin is given the all-clear to go home. Well, not home, because they’re two states over from Washington, but he can certainly leave the hospital. He still looks like shit, his swollen face developing into a black eye, bruising spreading around the edge of his eye socket and across his forehead. And his eyes still have that glassy look, so it doesn’t surprise Bob when the nurse tells them to not leave Odin alone for the next few hours, and to take him back to hospital if he develops any disturbing symptoms (like clear fluid leaking out of his ears, or his pupils going different sizes—the mere thought of those happening horrifies Bob).
Back on the bus, as Odin has a lie down on his bunk, Bob asks their driver to take them back to the venue. He notices Tor sitting right next to Odin, staring at his brother intensely. The nurse’s warning obviously scared him even more than it did Bob, so now Tor literally won’t let Odin out of his sight. Bob decides to join him, watching Odin as he has a nap.
Even when they get back to the venue and their crew start packing their stuff onto the bus, Bob and Tor don’t move. Odin, who isn’t asleep anymore, just smirks groggily at the pair of them.
“Are you stalking me now, guys?” he says.
“Oh, shut it,” Tor says, smiling fondly. “You heard the nurse. No independence for you today, Odin.”
Odin rolls his eyes. “Fussy bastards.”
Glancing at Bob, Tor’s smile becomes a cheeky smirk. “Stay there, Balder. I wanna get something.”
“Bro, you better not be doing what I think you’re doing,” Odin says as Tor scrabbles to his feet and rushes across the bus.
“What’s he doing?” Bob asks. He genuinely thinks the Anderson brothers are telepathic sometimes. But that can’t possibly be true. Right?
“Seriously, don’t you fucking dare!” Odin says as Tor returns, brandishing a marker pen, but Odin can’t keep a smile off his lips.
Bob understands Tor’s intentions when Tor kneels next to Odin’s bunk and puts his hand on Odin’s broken arm, but above the cast. And, giggling to himself, Tor draws a penis on Odin’s plaster cast.
“Fucking asshole,” Odin says as Tor’s giggles become hysterical laughter.
The laughter is contagious, and soon Bob is chuckling too.
“Not you as well…” Odin whines, but he snorts with laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” Bob says, trying to stop laughing. But then he looks at the vandalised plaster cast and laughs even louder.
“I hate you both, d’you know that?” Odin says, trying and failing to hide his own laughter.
“Love you too, bro,” Tor says, grinning.
As he watches them bicker, Bob’s lingering anxiety begins to fade. Because if Odin feels well enough to bitch at his brother, Bob is certain that things will turn out okay.
---
By the time Tor and Bob let him perform again, they’ve missed an entire week of shows. But those two are stubborn bastards and refused to let him on stage when he was still wobbly and prone to nausea and dizzy spells, so Odin just put up with his frustration at disappointing the fans. Eventually, though, they agree it’s okay for Odin to go on stage again.
Of course, he still can’t play his bass—his fucking wrist won’t heal for at least five more weeks, apparently—but they employ Balder’s plan and get him to record a bass track for their shows, allowing Odin to just focus on singing.
He feels like a bit of an idiot going on stage with a plaster cast on his wrist (especially a cast that has been doodled all over by his bandmates, including some very… colourful art courtesy of Tor), so Odin makes sure to dress in his long leather coat despite the hot weather. He still has an impressive black eye, the skin around his stitches fading into a rainbow of colours across a big chunk of his face, but Odin personally thinks it looks rather cool, unlike the plaster cast.
But at the end of the day, he doesn’t care too much about his appearance. All that matters to him is that he’s healing nicely, and he’s finally allowed back on stage. Performing means so much to Odin, and he hated being banned for his own health. But now he’s back, and he knows he’ll have so much fucking fun rocking out with his bandmates again.
Although perhaps he’ll put the spinning on hold for now.