Work Text:
He reached for two beers.
It was a habit built over years, an unbreakable ritual that felt like it was written into his very bones, infused into his blood. It was a habit he wasn’t ready to break.
Ilmo pulled the first beer from the top shelf of the fridge and the second from the case sitting on the bottom shelf with practiced ease. It was practically second-nature by now. He didn't believe in Jaakko’s theory that top-shelf beers were "significantly colder," than those from the box sitting on the bottom shelf, but... he still reached for them the same way he always had. One from the top for Jaakko, one from the bottom for himself. Just like they preferred. Just like always.
It was routine. Familiar. It almost felt normal.
But... nothing was normal now. His life was an unfamiliar and pale shade of what it had been only days ago. The buzz of the light inside the fridge felt too loud in the quiet trailer. The hum of the fridge, something he’d never even noticed before, felt deafening now in the hollow silence. It was a soberingly empty silence that used to be filled with his brother’s laugh, the scrape of a chair against the floor, the clink of their bottles as they toasted to things big and small.
He had taken it all for granted.
Ilmo set the two beers down on the rickety kitchen table and turned back to the fridge, grabbing two slices of leftover pizza.
Two again. Habit. Ritual. Muscle memory that he couldn’t shut off even though he knew it would hurt.
Maybe if he followed it, it wouldn't hurt as much.
He placed each slice on a plate - one for him, one for Jaakko - and carried them to the table. He set one down in front of his chair, and then carried the other to the microwave. He could practically hear Jaakko scoff, could see the way he’d scrunch up his nose at the idea of cold pizza. "Why you’d eat it like that, Ilmo, I’ll never get," he’d tease, rolling his eyes as Ilmo bit into his pizza while the microwave hummed. Ilmo let out a soft, humorless laugh as he pressed the microwave’s button.
Thirty seconds, pause, thirty seconds more. Just like Jaakko liked.
The microwave beeped, a shrill sound that made him flinch, pulling him back from his thoughts and into the quiet trailer. He carefully pulled the hot plate from the microwave, watching steam curl up into the air. He walked across the room and sat at the table. His hand trembled as he placed the plate at the seat across from him, sliding it just so, like he’d done a thousand times before.
He waited, just a beat, for Jaakko to reach for it.
He waited, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing it was pointless.
Jaakko couldn't take it.
The pizza sat untouched. The chair across from him remained empty. Cold and empty and everything that Jaakko hated.
He should get up, throw the pizza in the garbage, and put the beer back in the fridge - back on the bottom shelf, like how he preferred it. But Ilmo didn’t move. He couldn't.
The other beer sat there, beside the plate, sweating slightly against the tabletop, unopened and waiting. Waiting for someone that would never come.
Ilmo tried to swallow, but his throat felt thick, his chest tight, like something heavy was pressing down, squeezing the air out of him. It was something painful, something that had been there ever since he had watched his brother fall and Scratch rise. He wished he could force himself to drink both beers, eat both slices - anything to keep him from looking across the table at the silent, empty chair that felt like it was taunting him. Anything to pretend that everything was normal.
Ilmo forced his gaze down, staring at the slice of pizza in front of him. It was easier, staring at the plate, counting the pepperoni pieces, idly picking off a piece of cheese with his fingers. It was easier, to pretend. He pretended that he was just lost in thought, that his thoughts weren't singularly focused on the one gaping hole in his heart. But his mind kept slipping, kept drifting to the other chair. The one that should be occupied, but wasn’t.
"Cheers," he whispered, a pathetic attempt to fill the silence. His voice cracked, sounding small and foreign to his own ears. It was the kind of thing Jaakko would’ve laughed at him for. "Getting all sentimental on me, brother?" he’d say, rolling his eyes as he clinked his glass to Ilmo's, a wide smile on his lips.
He picked up his own beer, lifting it a few inches off the table before his hand faltered. He set it back down, his fingers clenching tight around the bottle. His vision blurred, and he looked up quickly, focusing on the water-stained roof as he blinked hard, desperate to push the tears back.
He didn’t want to cry.
He didn’t want to feel the absence so strongly that it choked him, that it makes every inch of this trailer feel like a cage closing in around him.
He didn't want to cry.
But he couldn’t ignore it.
He was still waiting for Jaakko to pick up his own beer, to roll his eyes, to say something like, "Stop overreacting, Ilmo. Drink up." But the silence stretched, long and unbroken, and his chest felt like it was splintering with each passing second.
The truth settled in like a stone. There was no one to drink with him. No one across the table. Just two beers, two plates, and one Koskela lost and lonely in a life that had always had two.
He shuddered, drawing a ragged breath, and let himself look at the chair - Jaakko’s chair, it had always been Jaakko's - one more time, feeling a strange, almost unbearable mix of love and loss and anger, all twisted up inside him.
The chair was empty.
And it would always be empty.
His brother was dead.
The realization that he had been firmly ignoring for the last few days slammed into him, and his vision blurred.
He couldn’t hold back the tears, not this time. He bowed his head, his shoulders shaking as the loneliness crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless and hollow.
There were two beers.
There were two plates.
But there was only one Koskela.