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“Want to listen to Requiem again?” Toki chirped from the front seat, a question that elicited dread from Skwisgaar despite no hint of malice tinging the cheerful rhythm guitarist’s voice. When he had gotten into the car some 12 hours prior, Skwisgaar had no idea that the sedan, old and reliable, came with the added quirk of having no auxiliary jack with which to play music via phone, had only a tape deck that had recently (two years ago, if the story the sedan’s owner told was true) been broken with Bathory’s Requiem stuck in it, rendering that the only music that could be listened to in the car. It had to have been pure stubbornness, Skwisgaar thought, that there had been seemingly no attempt to fix the broken tape deck though Skwisgaar knew well Toki had offered to pay for the repair out of his own pocket more than once since he had been told about it.
As little as Skwisgaar had learned about Toki’s brother in the years that they had been acquainted, albeit unwillingly, through the shared connection with Toki, it did strike Skwisgaar as something Runke would do, to listen only to Bathory’s worst album on repeat whenever he was driving as an exercise in brutality, a monk dedicated to transcendence through pain. Bracing himself for Runke’s agreement that they should hit play once more and suffer through the tin and static of Requiem and the lyrics Skwisgaar was coming to understand (My wounds, one thousand and crisp, as my life drips away…), fortune seemed to smile just this once as Runke gave a non committal grunt and said, “No, not again. It’s fine.” in terse Norwegian with a dialect very much like Toki’s own. Whether this was mercy or self preservation was difficult to say as Runke was an infamously unreadable man but this act alone was enough to make Skwisgaar like him just a tiny bit more.
Toki, perfectly unbothered, shrugged, drumming his hands on his lap as he looked out the window. “We should almost be there anyway, right?” Somehow Toki looked every bit as fresh as he had been when they’d gotten into the car half a day ago, throwing suitcases and duffels into the car with utter carelessness that was matched by the care with which he loaded a few wrapped parcels, boxes and bags and baubles all adorned in gaudy seasonal hues, topped with loop after loop of sparkling ribbons tied in bows lovingly curled by Toki’s own hand.
“Should be,” Runke replied. “Another hour or two, maybe.” An 11 hour drive in summer was extended to some 13 or 14 hours in winter, though the roads had been fortuitously clear all things considered and the journey had been safe, if a bit arduous.
“We would have been there already if someone hadn’t been afraid to fly,” Skwisgaar mumbled, knowing full well his words were ignored by both men in the front seat. It had been a journey Skwisgaar had not been anticipating in the slightest when Toki sprung on him only a week prior that they would, in fact, be driving to Týr’s home in Umeå all the way from Lillehammer, extending a quick one hour and change flight in the Dethjet to a trek between countries in Runke’s rusty car.
Skwisgaar had been so sure that it was a joke when Toki casually slipped into conversation that they’d be driving to Umeå because Runke was afraid of flying that he’d lauded Toki on making such a good joke, but the earnest look on Toki’s face showed that it was certainly not a joke. And now, poor Skwisgaar was living in a reality where he shuffled uncomfortably, folded neatly into the backseat of a car far too compact to accommodate his long limbs, and he counted dashes of the lines on the road, desperately passing the minutes until they would arrive.
Discomfort aside, both from legs being bent at an unnatural angle to fit into the car and being stowed behind Runke who had made his distaste for Skwisgaar no secret, it was impossible not to feel something akin to happiness when he saw the flash of Toki’s teeth, bared in a grin, in the rear view mirror of the car. Skwisgaar contented himself with sighing and trying to find spare space between suitcases in which to stretch his legs, asking his joints just a little more patience until they arrived and he could unfold himself and stretch out the many hours on the road. To see his bandmate so incandescent with joy made it worth it to hold his tongue, just for a little while.
When Toki’s phone, which had been used to navigate the 815 kilometers between Lillehammer and Umeå, announced that they were only 20 kilometers away, Skwisgaar retrieved his own phone with some difficulty, digging it out of the pouch of a duffel bag that was leaning against him, so he could text Týr that they were almost there. The ping of his reply - “Can’t wait!!!!!!” - was instantaneous, and Skwisgaar knew Týr had had his phone in hand awaiting just such a message. The mental image made Skwisgaar sigh and shake his head with affection.
“Almost there, finally!” Toki, who had finally become bored of the road, huffed. “That took forever. Want to turn on some music before we get -“
In union, both Skwisgaar and Runke said, a little too loudly, “No.”
The trip concluded in near silence aside from the noise of the road and Toki’s quiet humming of some of his favorite bits of Skyhunter, and as soon as Týr’s cabin approached in the near distance, a flash of white topped with blonde was outside and waving at them, the open curtain to the living room window speaking volumes about how long Týr had been sitting and waiting for them to arrive.
“Finally made it!” Toki cried as he waved at Týr with one hand and slapped Runke’s arm with the other, excitement flooding from inside of him to limbs that scarcely could contain the energy. Clearly accustomed to Toki’s way of expressing excitement, Runke’s hand looked as if it acted entirely of its own volition to gently push away the flailing digits as the other hand steered the car and parked it, the engine grinding to a halt with a sound somewhere between relief and surrender.
Toki was the first to explode from the car and wave wildly at Týr as he approached. Runke’s exit was a bit slower; like Skwisgaar, he clearly felt the effects of being cramped into a car for so long. It surprised Skwisgaar that he even opened the door and removed luggage that blocked Skwisgaar’s egress so he too could escape the confines of the sedan that only now revealed how stuffy it was as Swedish winter air flooded in and was greedily gulped by Skwisgaar who had never felt quite so grateful to feel terra firma beneath his boots.
“My boys!” Týr extended his arms toward Skwisgaar and Toki. “I’m so glad you’re here!” The ease with which Týr could give affection was something that, even after years of knowing him, still managed to impress both Toki and Skwisgaar, but they were powerless to resist its draw as both walked into his embrace, Toki readily throwing his arms around his father-friend and Skwisgaar doing so with a dash more reserve.
“Was the trip alright?”
Skwisgaar, taking a step with Toki out of Týr’s arms, shrugged. “It was fine.”
“And you -“ Týr closed the distance between himself and Runke. “- must be Runke. I’ve heard so much about you; it’s wonderful to finally meet you.” Týr’s greeting in lilting Swedish, far more florid in pronunciation than Skwisgaar’s, elicited an uncomfortable glance shared between Runke and Toki that lasted only a beat but spoke volumes between the brothers. Skwisgaar’s own flatter dialect and affect made it easier for Runke to understand him when he spoke Swedish, but Týr’s manner of speaking left Runke uneasy in his ability to understand and even in the limited exchange that had taken place, he already was unsure whether he understood what was said, and was even more uncertain of how to respond.
“Eh, Týr?” Toki began, swapping to accented English, “Would it be okay if we speaks English while we’s here?” This was something Toki had not accounted for; Runke’s grasp on Swedish was very limited and the same could be said for Týr’s grasp of Norwegian when he and Toki met; it took Týr several years before the two could converse in their native languages with a good level of comfort.
“Of course!” Týr had a way about him that made everything seem comfortable, effortlessly at ease. Such a request could be awkward in so many other situations, but Týr moved between languages with grace despite his own limited comfort with English, though none of the four men could be accused of speaking it with perfect fluency anyway and there would be no judgments about accents or grammar in this place.
Týr began again. “You must bes Runke.” Týr grinned and, remembering what Toki had told him about his brother, restrained himself from offering a hug and instead extended a hand. “I’ve heards so much about you, and it ams so good to finally meets you.”
With his thin eyebrow cocked up ever so slightly, it was clear that Týr’s warmth caught Runke off guard exactly as it had Skwisgaar and later Toki. In such a frigid part of the world, Týr was a bastion of warmth and it was impossible not to feel drawn to him.
Grasping and shaking his hand, one corner of Runke’s mouth upturned for but a split second in what passed for a smile on him. “Good to meets you too,” he responded in his own halting English. “Thanks you for inviting me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dreams of it any other ways!” As much as Týr had honorably resisted hugging Runke, he could not resist patting him on the shoulder. “Any family of Toki’s ams family of mine.”
The familiarity with which Týr welcomed people was so strange to Runke that he felt the need to change the subject right away before his thoughts could linger on how readily he, a stranger to Týr for all intents and purposes, was welcomed into the fold. “I broughts you something from Norway.” Toki already knew what Runke had brought and had taken it upon himself to grab it from the front seat and shove it into Runke’s hands.
“Mead, locally made.” Runke held a large glass bottle to Týr who took it with a gentleness bordering on reverence, the same manner in which he received any gift. “It ams very good. A most pagan drink.” He sniffed, proud of himself for bringing pagan flair to a largely Christian holiday.
“Mead!” Tyr turned the bottle around in his hands, reading the brown paper label and inspecting every detail. “You knows, I haven’t hads mead in years and don’t knows why, I always loved it. Thanks you, Runke.”
“Ah.” Runke dropped his gaze and, with some effort, barely kept his smile hidden. “Don’ts mention it.”
Tucking the bottle into his arms, Týr waved at everyone. “Why ams we standing out here in the colds? Come ons, gets your things and comes in! I’ve gots the fireplace going and some fresh cheese and bread -“ Týr trailed off as he and Skwisgaar, who had already gotten his suitcases and guitar from the car, strolled toward the cabin on a path obviously freshly shoveled.
Runke and Toki dislodged the rest of the suitcases and bags, Runke taking the majority of the burden on himself as Toki’s arms were full of gaily wrapped gifts, and the two fell in step with one another.
“Told you he was nice,” Toki whispered in Norwegian, a last chance to exchange words in their native language with one another, and grinned at his brother.
Runke, never one to admit how right Toki was, rolled his eyes and gently elbowed Toki, but he failed this time at hiding the upturn twisting the corner of his lips.
No sooner had Skwisgaar gotten into the living room and divested himself of his things than did he flop down onto the sofa and stretch his legs out with a great groan, face relaxed in catlike pleasure as he basked in the warmth of the fire’s glow and the immense relief of being able to extend his limbs easily to their full length. He had tried to avoid its notice but hanging on the wall was a new framed picture of Skwisgaar himself. Having grown up in a home entirely ornamented with glamorous portraits of his mother and few of himself, the replication and display of Skwisgaar’s likeness had become Týr’s mission and it seemed with every visit the number of framed pictures increased.
A few moments of blissful silence were all Skwisgaar was afforded before Toki and Runke came in, the two engaged in a quiet argument over what was truly Bathory’s worst album. If a Christmas miracle existed, Skwisgaar desperately hoped it would manifest in the form of a completely broken tape deck for the ride back to Norway.
As the two passed through the kitchen toward the living room, Týr peeked over his shoulder and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “You knows where the guest room is, rights, Toki?” Toki nodded. “You’s and Runke can shares that, if that ams fine with yous.”
“He snores like a weed whacker, but I ams fine with that.” Years of sharing a small apartment before Toki joined Dethklok had left him immune to Runke’s snores.
Still sawing at a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, Týr called into the living room, “And you, Skwisgaar, you can takes my bedroom and I’ll sleeps in the living room.”
Immediately there was outrage from all three men facing Týr, each voicing their refusal to let the cabin’s owner and the patriarch of the holiday sleep on the couch. Even Runke, incensed at the thought, offered to sleep on the couch while Toki and Skwisgaar shared the guest room. Any arrangement would be better than Týr being evicted from his own bedroom even though he’d hoped to have the chance to share lodging with his little brother for the first time in quite a while.
Skwisgaar’s voice rose the loudest above the fray. “I’ll sleeps on the couch, Týr.” Skwisgaar had already stretched himself the full length of the sofa and his blue eyes looked heavy as he stared into the fire. “Ams pretty comfy, really.” Had he allowed himself to lie there inert for much longer, the evening would already be over because sleep would take him, so Skwisgaar forced himself to sit up so he could join Týr for snacks and tea before everyone turned in.
Having shown Runke around the corner and into the guest room that they would share for the visit, suitcases and duffel bags were discarded there by Runke as Toki brought the gifts to the tree. No matter how many Christmas trees Toki saw in varying degrees of size and splendor, they never for a moment managed to lose their magic to him. Rendered motionless in the shimmer of lights and tinsel, Toki allowed himself the indulgence of several seconds to stare at the bright golden lights and the candy colored red baubles before finally relinquishing his parcels to the ground beneath the pine branches, tucking them under the safety of the boughs even though they would be rended apart only the next day when Christmas Eve came.
With Runke dragging as much as Skwisgaar, everyone congregated at the kitchen table where Týr had laid out a light late evening dinner - freshly baked and cut sourdough bread and jam, hard, sharp cheese, crumb cake with lingonberries (a favorite of Toki’s), and the ever present and well loved pickled herring. Only when presented with the fare, rustic and filling, did any of the three itinerant musicians realize how hungry they had been and how truly unsatisfying road snacks were. No handful of Doritos could come close to the flavor of simple Scandinavian food, familiar and comforting.
Týr, while pleased with his offerings, looked over the spread, apologetic for a notable deficiency. “I didn’t haves time to makes gingerbread yet, I apolgesecks for that.” Gingerbread in any and all forms was a staple of Swedish Christmas but he had found himself running shorter on time than he realized and the gingerbread remained disassembled and uncooked, flour and eggs and sugar and spices waiting to find delicious form.
“Don’t worries about that!” Toki mumbled, mouth full of herring and bread. “This ams all great.”
Runke was helping himself to cheese and bread with jam and, without looking up, volunteered, “I knows how to make gingerbread. I coulds help with that tomorrow, if you woulds like. I haves a very good gingerbread recipe.”
Part of Týr wished to protest because it went entirely against his hostly instincts to allow a guest to perform such labor during a visit, but he narrowly held back the rejection that nearly bubbled out of him in reflex. “The help woulds be very welcome! I always likes getting to try other people’s cookings, I don’ts get to dos that too often.” Sipping his tea, Týr made a gamble and hoped it would land. “Woulds you mind helping me with the rest of the cooking tomorrow too?” While it was well within his capability to make the Christmas Eve lunch he had planned, extending the invitation for Runke to help could make him feel more included, and the request was a chance Týr was willing to take.
Fortunately, the gamble was well made and Runke gave a curt nod. “I woulds be happy to.”
The four men fell into cordial conversation that came easily and freely as they ate and drank, the kitchen echoing with laughter, and eventually came the question that Skwisgaar and Toki both knew was coming.
“Oh, Runke. Toki tells me you has a band.”
Runke loved this question and the opportunity to answer; the way in which the answer was receiving was like a litmus test for the person he was talking to. As much as he had expected to someday outgrow the edgy teenager inside of him, the boy was alive and well as he ever was when he had conceptualized his band all those years ago.
“I do. It’s…pretty underground.”
“Yeah? Tells me about it, what’s the name?”
“Hestkuk.”
The differences between Norwegian and Swedish were minimal for this specific turn of phrase and Runke waited in anticipation to see how Týr would react to the equine anatomical name of his band.
While Runke had not set any real expectations for the reaction in his mind, he definitely had not expected Týr’s laughter, bell-like, that had no mocking beneath it. “Now that ams a name that catches attention, amn’ts it?” He sipped his tea and leaned forward. “If I was to sees that on a marquee outside of a theater, I thinks I would have to buy a ticket just to see what it ams about! Go on, tells me more.”
It wasn’t until Runke awoke that he even realized he had fallen asleep. The conversation had gone on so late into the night that he must have been asleep on his feet, but Týr was such a breath of fresh air that he’d had a second wind as they talked and was more than happy to stay up well into the night, snacking and talking.
Conspicuously alone, Runke could hear Toki’s chattering muffled from behind the closed door and smell the very welcome scents of coffee and cinnamon-sweet that were enough to drag Runke out of bed to dress. He donned a soft purple sweater and black pants before swiping on eyeliner, sight unseen, able to put on cosmetics without a mirror from years of practice applying corpse paint by muscle memory alone.
Satisfied, Runke joined the three men in the living room, two of whom were sipping black coffee and nibbling at cinnamon rolls, and one of whom - Toki - was eagerly prodding the gifts beneath the tree, stroking them lightly and muttering to himself about what they had inside, ever hopeful that the right touch might convince them to tell him their secrets, too distracted to be yet interested in breakfast.
Týr was first to spot the newcomer. “Happy Christmas Eve to you!” He raised his mug of coffee with one hand and beckoned with the other. “Helps yourself to coffee and cinnamon rolls on the kitchen, I lefts a mug and plate out for yous.”
Fond of coffee and almost equally fond of cinnamon rolls, Runke needed not to be invited twice before he poured himself a mug of coffee, helped himself to two cinnamon rolls, and joined everyone in the living room to listen to Toki’s excited prattling about opening presents tonight.
Allowing him the chance to have a few sips of coffee and bites of cinnamon roll first, Týr finally asked Runke, “Did you sleeps well?”
In response, Runke swallowed a mouthful of cinnamon roll, nodded, and brushed a few crumbs off of his bottom lip. “Very well, thanks you again.”
“Good, glads to hear it! We haves a lot to do today.” Týr’s voice, normally warm and steady, rose ever so slightly in excitement that mirrored Toki’s own, though to a much more reserved degree, and he reigned in his excitement the best he could to allow everyone to finish their breakfast and chat idly for a good while before he moved on.
“Now, I don’t knows how you normally do Christmas Eve, but we opens gifts last thing in the evening.” At this devastating admission, Toki’s eyes were finally wrenched free of the gifts he had been staring at since he awoke and he turned his gaze mournfully on Týr who quickly added, “But! I haves a gift for each of you boys right now before the day ams on too long.”
As Týr collected three parcels from beneath the tree, it slowly registered to Runke that he was being included and when a gift, wrapped in grey plaid paper and adorned with a large metallic silver bow, was placed in his hands, he found himself somewhat bashful to receive it.
Gifts of identical size but sporting different wrapping - green for Toki, blue for Skwisgaar - were dropped into the outstretched hands of their respective guitarist. Face creased in a smile, Týr sat and waved his hands at everyone. “Well, goes on. Opens them!”
Toki wasted no time shredding the green wrapping and gold ribbons away to reveal a plain white box that he tilted his head at curiously, eyes sparkling with good natured avarice. Skwisgaar was more dignified and deliberate in his motions, carefully opening the ends of the paper and quietly ripping the wrapping even as Toki gnashed his teeth and ordered, “Just rips it, Skwisgaar!”, demands that fell upon ears well trained in shutting them out.
Runke, on the other hand, savored the weight of the gift in his hands for a few moments, absentmindedly letting his fingertip stroke the edge of the box before finally feeling the eyes on him, waiting for him to open it, and that was his cue to land somewhere in between the unwrapping techniques of Skwisgaar and Toki, opting to tear the paper away with gusto but to fall short of shredding it to a nearly unrecognizable pile of paper litter as Toki had done.
Toki and Skwisgaar opened their gift boxes simultaneously. Skwisgaar was the first to remove his gift from the box and hold it up, a lovely cream and blue sweater with geometric motifs. Beneath the garment were a matching hat and scarf. Having watched Skwisgaar, Toki retrieved and proudly displayed his gift, a beige and hunter green sweater with bunnies and trees all around the shoulders. Like Skwisgaar’s, a matching hat and scarf hid beneath the sweater in the bottom of Toki’s gift box.
Before Runke could open his gift, Týr added, “I didn’t knows your size, but I did asks Toki whats you like.”
Runke opened the box and was greeted with a scarf of thick black and white wool, adorned at the ends with the knitted design of a stately corvid. Runke was a man who had made his living in the black metal scene largely through his gift of gab; introverted though he was in his heart, he never found himself at a loss for words when it counted. But looking at the hand knitted scarf and hat, words did not come easily and his thoughts were jumbled, so touched was he by the gift Týr had given to him.
Present enough at least not to make himself too much of a sentimental fool, Runke sniffed and stroked his fingertips over the soft scarf, pushing it aside to see that it too had a matching hat with it. Týr was thoughtful down to the last detail and it was evident from the perfectly imperfect craftsmanship that each of the items had been hand knitted, likely made at special request by an artisan from town.
“Crows ams my favorite,” Runke’s lips curved into a smile, barely visible, as he confirmed what Týr clearly already knew. “Thanks you.”
Both Toki and Skwisgaar chimed in their thanks as well and even without prompting, Toki had already peeled away his plain sweater to dress in his new gift. Skwisgaar followed suit and slipped off his old sweater to dress in his new one; it was obvious that Týr had given them the gifts early so they could wear the sweaters for Christmas Eve.
“Ah, perfect!” Týr held his hands out to Toki and Skwisgaar, beholding them with all the regard of any proud father. “They looks great on yous!” Toki was beaming as his eyes flitted back and forth between the knitted bunnies adorning his sweater and Týr’s adoring face. “Oh, I shoulds get a picture of you ins that, Skwisgaar!”
Always eager to add a new photo of Skwisgaar to the wall, Týr’s face, once bright, fell. “Oh damns, I forgot to gets film when I was out.” Old fashioned to the core, Týr always strived to take photos with film rather than his phone’s camera.
His moment had arrived and Toki launched to his feet. “Oh! Just a minute.” In the guest room and out in a flash, Toki skittered to Týr and thrust an instant camera and a pouch of film into his hands. “I broughts this with me so we coulds get some pictures!”
Somehow despite having had his photo taken millions of times over the course of his career, Skwisgaar still sometimes felt awkward when the lens was turned on him, just Skwisgaar, rather than on Skwisgaar the Guitar God. Still, to make Týr happy, he could push that shyness aside. “Where do you wants me to stand?”
Lips pursed as he looked around, Týr’s eyes landed on the window. “Outside, maybes? Ams no better time to wear a sweater than out in the snow, after alls.”
Skwisgaar glanced out the window at the beautifully gray calm outside of Týr’s cabin; the cold had always been a welcome friend all his life and he didn’t much mind visiting it for a photo. “That’s fine,” he said as he stood and smoothed the sweater down over his hips.
“I’ms comings with!” Toki was on his feet, already running through a spiel to Týr of how to use the instant camera, Týr nodding along as if was being told how to use a camera for the first time and hadn’t already had some fifty years of experience with it before Toki came along.
“You wants to come with, Runke?” Týr offered, and Runke did earnestly consider, albeit briefly, before shaking his head.
“Thinks I’ll pass. Minds if I get in the kitchen and start getting things out for cooking?” Runke wasn’t a man anyone would clearly peg as one who not only liked cooking but was good at it, and he admittedly was excited to make gingerbread today. Though he could not be accused of being a huge fan of Christmas, he did love the flavors and smells of the season, especially the spicy sweetness of gingerbread.
“Oh, sure!” Týr slipped on his jacket as he stood in the entryway waiting for Toki and Skwisgaar to put on their boots. “Feels free to digs through; I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
Toki practically dragged Skwisgaar out, much to Týr’s amusement. The boy was nothing if not energetic and the house always seemed so enlivened just by his presence, a sentiment that both Runke and Týr shared. The reprieve to be alone for a few minutes, however, was not unwelcome; the drive the day before had been exhausting, especially with Toki’s insistence to play the same cassette again and again. It wasn’t until they hit the road that Runke deeply regretted not fixing the tape deck because even he could not have anticipated being subjected to the same album for a good 8 hours or more of the nearly 14 hour trip.
Týr’s kitchen was well stocked and decently organized and Runke had little difficulty finding and extracting everything he needed for gingerbread, though he didn’t know what the lunch Týr had planned entailed so he was little help finding the rest of what might be needed for the remaining dishes. Gingerbread though, that much he knew as it was the same all over Scandinavia, a common language of flavor shared between countries.
The few minutes Runke had to himself were abruptly ended when Toki and Skwisgaar burst back in through the door, Toki giggling in a way Runke easily identified as mischievous. Having lived with him for some years meant Runke could glean from a mere laugh when Toki was up to something evil or, in this case, had just committed said evil.
Skwisgaar sometimes looked like a wet cat even on the best of days; he simply had the look of someone haunted about him with his cornsilk blonde hair and shadowed eyes, but he looked even more so when he stomped in with hair dripping, pants and boots caked with snow.
Týr’s tone was an effort at sympathy that fell flat as the glimmer of laughter was too clear beneath sugared words. “This picture ams still going to be great, I knows it!” Runke peeked around the corner to the entryway where Toki was dusting the snow off of Skwisgaar’s sweater but making no effort whatsoever to hide the grin that split his face.
“If I had known it was goings to be a snowball fight, I woulds have been ready,” Skwisgaar grumbled as he tapped his toes against the floor to shake loose the snow that clung to the top of them.
“Not a snowball fight,” Toki hissed, grinning. “An assassination.”
Runke turned back to his tasks to hide the smirk on his face as Toki and Skwisgaar passed through the kitchen into the living room. Týr sidled up next to Runke and held out the instant picture which was still cloudy as it developed but clearly showed an image, perfectly timed, that caught Skwisgaar being beaned in the back of the head with a snowball by Toki. “What do you thinks?”
Biting the inside of his lip to prevent himself from making a face, Runke nodded once and carefully chose his reply. “Memorable.”
“Exactly!” Týr was obviously delighted. “I’m goings to go change into my pajama pants again; the snow ams deeper than I thought and gots my pants wet at the bottoms. The other boys ams changing too, why don’ts you join us? Get mysig - ah, cozy, I thinks is the word in English. That’s what Christmas ams for.”
Hesitant, Runke thought on the pajama pants he had brought with him… “After we ams done cooking, maybes?” That would give him a stay of execution, at least for a little while. Did he really have to bring his Moomin pajama pants on this trip, of all the pajama pants he could have brought?
“Sounds good! I’ll be back to helps you make lunch in just a few.”
Alone once again, Runke could hear the quiet bickering of Toki and Skwisgaar in the living room, the elfish sound of Toki’s laughter sending him back to a time not so long ago when the two lived together in Lillehammer after Toki’s flight from his parents’ home. Many more times than once when Toki had pulled a prank on him had Runke heard that exact same laughter, carrying a lightness of spirit that someone who had been through as much as Toki had reasonably ought not to have, but somehow Toki managed to always keep himself afloat, even optimistic, in the darkest times of his life.
Listening to that laughter and the hushed arguing from the next room filled Runke with something bittersweet, memories of the time when Toki lived with him as his little brother, now long passed, and the reminder that even though they would always be family, Toki had grown up and the family he had created had grown so much. The realization filled Runke with equal parts pride and sadness and he counted himself fortunate that Týr rejoined him in the kitchen when he did, holding out a flowered apron with a smile and, “Here, so you don’ts get too much flour on your sweater.”
Grateful for the distraction, Runke took and donned the apron, glad Toki wasn’t nearby with his camera to capture anything as he and Týr worked elbow at elbow to prepare the gingerbread and Julbord that everyone would nibble on throughout the day and into the evening. Týr was a master at holding conversation with anyone, ever adept at pulling words out of a stranger until they felt like they were simply an old friend visiting after many years apart.
“So you likes cooking, huh?” Týr asked after some time as he poked cloves into the top of a cured and glazed ham that was destined for the oven as soon as Runke’s gingerbreads were finished.
Putting his elbows into rolling out the gingerbread dough, Runke nodded. “Mmm, yeah. It’s…calming.” Maybe it was because the black metal lifestyle was always so dissonant that Runke found comfort in the kitchen, never complaining when he found an excuse to cook something tasty. Many years ago, he himself had spent countless hours in the kitchen teaching Toki how to cook, amazed to find that Toki had a knack for burning spaghetti noodles, a feat that was a sort of talent all on its own.
“You knows, Skwisgaar told me when he joined Dethklok, he didn’t evens know how to cook coffee.”
Runke scoffed at that as he cut gingerbread cookies out with a star shaped cutter and dropped them onto a greased cookie sheet before popping them into the oven. “It ams a good thing they gots so commercially successful so they can have someone else cookings for them because Toki amn’ts much better.”
With Runke’s gingerbreads in the oven baking away, Týr started pointing out things that Runke could help with. “This won’t be a huge Julbord,” Týr said. “Just some favorites and Swedish traditions.”
“I’ms not picky, I’m sures I’ll likes whatever you have planned.”
Heartened, Týr gestured at a pile of potatoes. “You minds peeling the potatoes?”
Wearily, Runke set eyes upon a bowl of tubers on the counter - his only culinary weakness had been spotted and taken in one fell swoop. Peeling potatoes was one thing Runke wasn’t keen on and was a job that, in true big brother fashion, he always relegated to Toki when it came time to do it back when they still lived under the same roof. As ornery as people rightly perceived him to be, he would never argue against the request and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater as he set to his task, suspecting fondly by the glint in Týr’s eye that he, too, was not a fan of peeling potatoes and he was content to hand the task to the newest member of the party, a right earned by any well meaning patriarch.
The two chatted as Runke peeled and Týr prepped, mostly about music, and it certainly didn’t escape Runke’s notice that Týr would brag on Skwisgaar any time he was given the chance. How strange, Runke thought, that family was so readily built in the absence of blood, but the thought was immediately discarded when he remembered that Toki’s kinship with him was not constructed from blood any more than Týr’s kinship with Skwisgaar.
The ten minutes it took the gingerbreads to bake passed in the blink of an eye and Runke was too focused on popping them out of the oven to notice Toki sneak in, camera in hand, to turn the lens on him with a, “Smile, Runke!” that was so sudden that he hardly had time to turn his eyes away and preserve what dignity he might retain even though he knew it whatever was left would be gone as soon as he changed into his Moomin pajamas after cooking was complete.
Skittering back to the living room, photographic treasure in hand, Runke turned back to the work at hand helping Týr prepare the rest of the Christmas lunch. A few beats passed before Týr said, “He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah.” Runke nodded, licking powdered sugar away that had found its way to the corner of his mouth. “He is.”
Though Týr had introduced the Julbord as not huge and pretty simple before they’d started working on it, some four hours soared by as they cooked and neither had noticed the time that elapsed while they worked, nor had Toki or Skwisgaar felt the passage of time as they bickered (perfectly normal for the two, in truth) and talked in the living room, voices occasionally interrupted by an especially loud twang of Skwisgaar’s ever present guitar strumming. Of course, it didn’t hurt terribly that Týr had opened the mead that Runke had brought as well as a bottle of aquavit and he and Runke enjoyed nips of both as they cooked.
“It’s all just about done.” Týr had already put the leaf into the kitchen table to extend it and begun setting out dishes, cold and hot alike, served in a variety of china with the charming variation between plates that one might expect from a bachelor who had inherited some number of sets from different family members at different phases of his life. “Why don’t you go throws on your pajama pants on like the rest of us? As much as there is to eat, you’re going to needs as much room as possible!”
Secretly Runke had fervently hoped that Týr would forget, but he wouldn’t deny the man the enjoyment of everyone being as comfy as possible for Christmas Eve and, head hung only a little, Runke retreated to the guest room to change into his favorite Moomin pajama pants just in time for Týr to call everyone in to eat.
It turned out, however, Týr was absolutely right and stuffing himself on the Julbord made Runke grateful he’d changed into something loose and comfy. By the third visit to the table, absolutely loaded with tasty dishes in quantities far too great for only four men to finish off, Runke was already stuffed but he had already been lapped by Toki by two visits and he wasn’t one to readily accept defeat as he kept trying to pick at the delicious Christmas ham as much as humanly possible before he had to finally lay down his plate lest he burst before he even had a chance to sample the gingerbread that he had made or the rice and fruit pudding Týr had made.
It had been some time since either Toki, Skwisgaar, or Runke had had a home cooked feast quite like this, full of the flavors of home and seasoned with the company of people they enjoyed, and everyone was borderline miserable by the time they were nibbling at the gingerbread, half because it was tasty and half to soothe the upset stomach of overindulgence that was sure to come in short order.
Peeking out the open window at the early afternoon winter sunset, lighting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Týr looked to Toki and asked, “How abouts we get a group photo before the sun is gone?”
Toki never needed to be asked twice and, without response greater than a smile, was across the room in a flash, setting up the camera on its timer as Týr, Skwisgaar, and Runke sat on the sofa together.
“Ready!” Toki bounded across the room and threw himself onto the floor in front of the couch as Týr draped an arm around Skwisgaar’s shoulder. All smiled, or achieved some semblance of a smile, as the shudder opened and closed and a film popped out of the camera.
The beauty of the Swedish afternoon sunset languidly faded into a winter dark evening and Skwisgaar continued to pluck at the strings of his guitar as Týr happily indulged in more mead, grinning and regaling everyone with tales of his wilder days as Toki impatiently whimpered at the gifts, all still entirely too intact and unopened for his liking, their mysteries still concealed beneath paper and bow.
On the mantle above the fireplace, an effigy of sorts caught Runke’s eye, and the notice did not go unseen by Týr. “Oh, you knows what that is?”
“Mmm.” Runke was a man well versed in effigies of this sort, especially this specific one. “The Gävle Goat.”
Lifting his glass to point at it, Týr chuckled. “You knows, lots of peoples keeps little versions of that in their homes around here, though lots of people go to see it in person if they lives near it. Some people even travels to it just to sees it.”
Pouring himself a little more mead and sipping at it, Runke’s eyes were locked onto the little straw goat. “There ams a lot of security around that these days, yeah?”
Toki’s curiosity had been piqued enough to wrench his eyes away from the gifts beneath the tree just long enough to snap a photo and then call Runke out. “Runke, didn’ts you talk abouts traveling to Gävle a longs time ago to -” He considered his words briefly and seemed to measure his tone, but all tact was discarded in short order. “- try to burn it down?”
The gleam in his eyes was too much to conceal and Runke shrugged. “It ams a tradition of sorts, amn’ts it?”
Týr laughed and drained his glass only for Runke to step forward and refresh it again. “Good lucks with that! Way too many security guards arounds there to pulls that off these days.”
Half surprised, Runke raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you may haves considered a trip to Gävle yourself, hmm?”
Týr shook his head with a chuckle. “Oh, I think I ams too old to be arrested for that sort of thing these days. But!” He sipped again. “I cans appreciate the effort nonetheless.”
Runke’s respect for Týr grew by the minute, only urged on when Týr added, “You knows, we haven’t gots any plans for tomorrow evening. Maybe that little goat could be taken care of here, if you’d be so interested in the honors.”
Runke deeply regretted his choice to cut back on smoking because his lighter back at his home in Lillehammer was screaming for him right then, but he was determined to play it cool even as the thought of fire flicking to life in his hands made his thumb tingle. “Thinks that would be okay with me.”
Skwisgaar’s playing, a consistent tune through the evening, halted to a screech and drew everyone’s attention. “Eugh, I thinks Toki ams going to explodes if you don’t lets him open presents now.”
“Oh!” Týr had gotten so lost in conversation that he had hardly remembered the gifts beneath the tree; it was so easy to lose track of time with a belly warm from gingerbread and a head warm from mead! “Toki, how abouts you pick the first-“
Týr was interrupted by Toki’s hands snapping out to latch onto a metallic gold bag that he shoved into Týr’s hands. “It’s for you! Opens it, now!” All politeness was gone in a flash and his eyes, pupils blown wide, were locked onto Týr as he waited for him to open the present.
“Well, let’s see what it is!” Týr already knew well though that it was Toki’s first traditional gift to Týr that he gifted to him every year for the past few years since he had begun joining visiting Týr around Christmas time - an exclusive Dethklok shirt and a VIP pass that would get him backstage at any concert, a pass that Týr had used plenty of times over the years so he could admire his boys and brag on them to anyone within earshot that would listen. It was one of his favorite gifts that he ever received - the chance to be so proud of Skwisgaar and Toki and everything that they accomplished.
Once Toki was in the gifts like a whirlwind, he couldn’t stop shoving brightly wrapped gifts into everyone’s hands, demanding they open them, more than once doing so with such gusto that he had accidentally forced someone to open a gift that was actually intended for him, but the misfiring of the gift never once bothered him and he received it as gleefully as if he himself had divested the present of its bright wrapping. Of particular delight to Toki was an elaborate stuffed cat - a gift from Skwisgaar to Toki - that he had accidentally made Skwisgaar open; so tragic was the way his face fell when he saw a gift he so coveted that Skwisgaar had to shove it into Toki’s arms straight away lest his lip begin wobbling at the sight of a gift that filled him with such jealousy to behold.
As the gifts were handed out, so feverish was his glee that Toki slowly lost pieces of clothing, his body temperature seemingly climbing with every present distributed and every sip of aquavit he took in. First the sweater was shed, carefully folded by Skwisgaar and put to the side in a place of safety, and eventually as the gift massacre neared its end, even his pajama pants were peeled away and he was left only in his long thermal underwear and bright blue and yellow socks.
Shredding open a box of chocolates that may or may not have been intended as a gift to him, Toki popped a truffle into his mouth as Skwisgaar and Runke shared an uneasy look, ready to take possession of the chocolates if he got carried away and took it upon himself to eat too many. Luck was on their side though and Toki was content to eat only two of them before joyfully saying, “Happy Christmas, everyone!” as his eyes grew heavy and he began to slump to the floor, entirely spent from the long drive the day before and the scant hour of sleep he had gotten, too excited for Christmas Eve to allow himself to truly rest.
With Toki already asleep, snoring softly, Skwisgaar set his guitar to the side for a moment to cross the room and stick a bright red bow on Toki’s hip as he slept, muttering a satisfied little “heugh” at this most tame of revenge for the snowball he’d taken to the skull earlier in the day. Runke narrowed his eyes - not out of malice toward Skwisgaar, but only because he had taken it upon himself to do first what Runke had been thinking about doing. Turnabout felt like fair play though and Runke made use of Toki’s camera to capture a photo of the bedazzled man snoozing away beside the Christmas tree amongst the colorful litter of Christmas carnage.
As everyone wound down, Skwisgaar’s guitar provided mellow music as the evening and its conversation slowed, the riffs becoming more gentle as the minutes passed. Týr sipped at the hot tea that Runke had made for everyone, gazing into the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Having had more than his fair share of sweets and drinks, he too felt sleep threatening to take him and seized his last presence of mind to mutter, “Glads you coulds all make it for Christmas.” His eyes fell shut. “Glad you were heres.”
The only two left awake, Skwisgaar and Runke looked at their charges - father and brother - both sound asleep in a matter of a few short moments.
“Should we gets them to bed?” Skwisgaar asked, shifting his guitar in his lap as he sank back into the couch.
“Mmm.” Runke shook his head and looked fondly at Toki, sleeping peacefully by the tree, surrounded by shredded paper and half eaten chocolates, his face awash in an expression of perfect serenity. “Lets them sleep a little bits longer.”
