Chapter Text
We were together.
I forget the rest.
— Walt Whitman
1
When he pressed his right index finger against the doorbell of Canute’s dwelling, Thorfinn didn’t know what to expect. It was almost dinnertime, and there he was, showing up at his door in a pitiful state — his black hoodie crumpled, his lip split, a cut on his cheekbone, and his body covered in bruises.
He had thrown some punches too, of course — his scraped, bleeding knuckles were undeniable proof of that. Being alone against five assholes he already had to put up with at school had never really been a disadvantage for him. The problem was that, once again, he had responded to provocation with violence, and because of that, he felt pierced by invisible eyes, judging him with grim coldness.
It always happened whenever he gave in to that primal instinct boiling inside him: he lashed out, snarled, slammed his knuckles against noses, mouths, and cheekbones that made up the faces of his tormentors. And then, when the blind fury had burned itself out, nothing remained except an unfillable void in his chest, deep as an abyss, terrifying as a starless night
(how can one find their way without a North Star to follow?)
Lost. That was how he felt. Lost in the dark recesses of his mind, in memories that devoured him relentlessly, draining him of every last drop of emotion.
And when the door opened, Thorfinn realized there was no turning back. Canute stood just a few steps away, one hand resting on the door handle, his gaze fixed on Thorfinn’s battered figure, lips about to form the words “Who is it?”
He didn’t say them. Instead, he spoke his name, a whisper carried by the biting breeze of that evening, and his eyes filled with hues of something resembling panic — shadows clung to his irises like a thin but perilous veil.
“Thorfinn…”
2
It happened in an instant. Just enough time to recover from the initial surprise, and then that whisper morphed into something more powerful, an exclamation filled with apprehension and dismay.
“Thorfinn! Good heavens, what happened to you?”
Canute stepped aside, and at that gesture, Thorfinn flinched ever so slightly. What were they doing? Why had he shown up in this state, and why was Canute letting him into his house? Didn’t they realize how wrong this was, an immense, tangled mess of things that simply didn’t fit together?
The urge to step back, even just a little, crept into him with force, but he didn’t act on it. He stayed put, motionless, as if he had grown roots in that precise spot in the world
(just a few steps away from that house, from Canute)
and muttered a careless “It’s nothing.”
The boy standing in front of him clearly thought otherwise: “Nothing? You’re bleeding! Come inside, I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
Thorfinn barely held back a sigh, knowing that resisting would be pointless. After all, he had been the one to ring the doorbell out of nowhere. Canute was simply reacting accordingly.
He took a few steps inside the imposing dwelling, and before he even had time to close the door behind him and let the warmth seep into his frozen body, thawing the cold that had settled into the fabric of his hoodie, a second voice rang in his ears, so agitated that it made him roll his eyes.
“Young master, what is going on?”
That was what Ragnar would have wanted to ask, having rushed downstairs the moment Canute had raised his voice. But instead, everything condensed into a single, sharp: “You!” to which Thorfinn was used to it by now.
“What are you doing here?” Ragnar pressed, growing more and more agitated.
(I’d like to know that too.)
Thorfinn shrugged indifferently, and the man, dressed in his comfortable clothes that hadn’t faced the biting cold of the evening, didn’t even have time to scold him for the lack of respect only thanks to the return of Canute’s, first aid kit in hand, put a stop to that, acting as the mediator between them.
“Ragnar, please, we have other priorities right now. Could you fetch some honey while I treat Thorfinn’s wounds?”
“Wounds?” Ragnar asked, eyeing him more closely.
“Honey?” Thorfinn echoed, bewildered.
He didn’t even manage to raise an eyebrow to emphasize his confusion before Ragnar stepped in front of him, gripping his shoulders.
“Who did this to you? Do you have any broken bones? Should I call an ambulance? Do I need to tell your sister?”
Unbelievable, just moments ago, he had been ready to tear into him for barging in unannounced, and now he was genuinely worried. Typical of that man, Thorfinn had come to know him well.
“None of that,” he replied tersely, wriggling free from Ragnar’s grasp. “It’s just a scratch.”
“No, it’s not,” Canute countered firmly, grabbing his wrist with his free hand. “You’re coming with me, and don’t argue. Ragnar, the honey, please.”
And much to his own dismay, Thorfinn couldn’t bring himself to protest. Not after meeting Canute’s gaze and realizing just how serious he was.
He had worried him. Once again. And something inside him twisted, right at the center of his chest.
3
He followed Canute into the spacious living room, and when the latter let go of his wrist, Thorfinn almost lost his balance, as if he had been stripped of the little precarious equilibrium he had left. Without putting up a fight, he decided to take a seat on the comfortable couch while Canute placed the first aid kit on the glass coffee table in front of them.
Thorfinn watched him for a moment, lingering on the quick movements the young man made as he slipped off the hair tie he had around his wrist and gathered his long blond hair into a high ponytail that rested gently against his nape.
(He was so delicate he almost seemed like a mirage.)
He quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be interested in anything else — the wall-mounted television, the bookshelf filled with volumes on philosophy, Viking and medieval history, essays on politics and contemporary society, the modern fireplace that was currently lit — when Canute turned to him, holding out a piece of gauze.
"Press this against your lip to stop the bleeding. Now, let me see your free hand," he said without even waiting for a response.
He took Thorfinn’s right hand in his own and examined the bloody, battered knuckles before proceeding to clean them with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. Thorfinn didn’t make a sound, not even the faintest hiss, nor did he flinch when, after the cleansing, Canute applied disinfectant to the wounds. It burned, but it was a tolerable discomfort. He had been through worse.
What unsettled him, though, was Canute’s attitude toward him, specifically the care he was putting into treating his injuries. It was strange, inexplicable, and because of that, he couldn’t quite name what he was feeling.
He felt out of place, a heap of flesh and dirty, crumpled clothes that had nothing to do with the refinement of this place, which instead seemed tailor-made for Canute, immaculate and elegant as always — he wore a navy blue turtleneck sweater that perfectly matched the light blue of his eyes, and his legs were clad in simple jeans, comfortable enough to wear at home yet still maintaining that effortless style that made Canute look almost princely.
(He was beautiful. There was no point in denying it, he was painfully beautiful.)
After confirming that the wounds on both hands were superficial — and thus didn’t require bandaging —Canute focused on the cut on his cheekbone, cleaning it with a sterile gauze pad soaked in saline solution. The way he rummaged through the first aid kit and handled bandages and antiseptics was new to Thorfinn, though he didn’t dwell on it for long because, at that very moment, Ragnar entered the living room with what Canute had asked for.
That made him press the gauze harder against his split lip, as if trying to suppress an internal scream, suffocate it until it became nothing more than a shapeless, powerless murmur.
The fact that Ragnar was seeing them like this made him uneasy. Until just a moment ago, even though Thorfinn had felt out of place, he had been sharing something with Canute that belonged only to them: the way Canute had touched his hands and carefully disinfected his knuckles had been something unique, a small fragment of intimacy that he would carry with him forever.
Now that Canute was tending to his cheekbone, dangerously close, Ragnar’s presence had snapped him back to reality, reminding him that they weren’t alone, and these moments they were sharing were nothing more than a fleeting parenthesis drawn with an empty pen. Most likely, they wouldn’t even talk about it at school the next day.
Ragnar placed the small jar of honey on the coffee table. “If you need anything else, I’ll be in my study,” he informed them before walking away.
"Thank you, Ragnar," Canute replied for both of them, since Thorfinn only let out a half-hearted grunt.
"Stay still," he ordered while continuing to clean and disinfect the wound.
"Not like I’m moving," Thorfinn muttered, averting his gaze.
(Close. Canute was really, too close.)
"Do you want some ice?" Canute asked after applying a bandage to the wound. "It’s starting to bruise a bit…"
"Not necessary."
"Are you sure?"
"One hundred percent," he replied, pulling the gauze away from his split lip. "Are we done?"
When Canute hesitated just a moment too long, eyes lingering on his busted lip, Thorfinn realized they wouldn’t be going anywhere until that was treated too. A warm shiver ran down his spine, and a strange numbness took over his limbs.
"The gauze did its job," he pointed out, making it clear that he wanted to put an end to this once and for all.
"But the cut might split open again," Canute replied with disarming simplicity, "and honey has natural healing properties. That’s why I asked Ragnar to check if we had some at home."
He took the jar in his hands and twisted off the lid. Thorfinn thinned his gaze, feeling an entirely different kind of storm brewing inside him.
(His heart was pounding, too fast. He was dazed, rigid like a wolf on high alert, and he had no idea how he’d react to that kind of contact.)
"Absolutely not," he objected, ready to stand up and put as much distance as possible between himself and this compromising situation. "I’m not letting you smear that stuff on me like it’s lip balm, forget it."
The truth was something else entirely. The truth was that Canute had dipped his own finger into the jar. And no, he wouldn’t let him touch him. Not there. Not like that.
"If you don’t let me treat it, the cut might reopen while you’re talking or eating, and it’ll only bother you more," Canute explained with a sigh. "Could you… trust me a little longer?"
Thorfinn couldn’t suppress a shudder.
For a moment, the world spun in the opposite direction, and hundreds of invisible chains shattered within him all at once, lifting the weight that had been pressing down on his chest for so many years.
He didn’t know how to interpret these new sensations — he was disoriented, lost, confused — but at least he didn’t reject them. Even though it took all his self-control not to jerk away when he felt Canute’s fingertip press so gently against his injured lip.
His first instinct was to turn his head and put an end to whatever this was, but Canute had anticipated that, holding his chin in place with his free hand. He wasn’t gripping tightly, wasn’t forcing him, just steady enough that, in the end, Thorfinn chose not to resist.
Canute’s eyes remained mostly fixed on his lips, but every so often, he glanced up, and their gazes met in brief flashes of silent understandin, as if, in that moment, time had stopped and their hearts were speaking in a language only they could hear.
They were saying so much without uttering a single word. Maybe they were even screaming, each trying to overpower the other.
(Let me help you.)
(I don’t need it.)
(But you’re here now, and as long as you stay, I’ll take care of you.)
(I didn’t ask for a babysitter.)
(You’re always the same.)
It didn’t hurt. The honey had an almost immediate effect, and Canute’s touch didn’t cause him any discomfort.
It was frighteningly beautiful.
4
Staying for dinner hadn’t been part of the plan. In fact, ever since he had stepped into that bright house with its spacious rooms, nothing had followed any real logical course, everything had unfolded in complete randomness. And yet, from the moment Canute had closed the first aid kit and started fiddling with the stove and cookware in the kitchen, the atmosphere had become so light, so familiar, that leaving had become impossible for Thorfinn.
He had sent a message to Ylva to let her know he wouldn’t be coming home for dinner, and she had replied, telling him not to get into trouble —though, in reality, he already had and had already gotten out of it. Neither of them had mentioned Helga, but it was implied that they didn’t want to worry her and that Ylva would tell their mother he was having dinner at a classmate’s house. Either way, once he got home, she would see the bruises and cuts. Ylva would too.
But this time, there was something different: these were wounds that were already healing, wounds that had been tended to with care and patience. It was a stark contrast to the way Thorfinn usually came home after a fight — marked by something no one, not even himself, had taken care of.
In the end, Canute was the first person Thorfinn had allowed to get close to him after years of solitude and he didn’t understand why. He had let him touch every scrape, let him soothe them, even cuddle him in his own way. The mess that was his body — covered in scratches, cuts, bruises, and scars — served as armor, the thing that helped him protect the most fragile and defenseless part of himself.
The guilt of having done nothing concrete, of not remembering enough of what had happened eleven years ago, tore through his insides without anesthetizing him first, clutching his heart in an icy, merciless grip, as if death itself was holding that pain-ridden, beating muscle, waiting for the right moment to crush it once and for all.
And yet, in that moment, all he could think about was the fact that Canute was making plokkfiskur and rugbrød med pålæg.
He remained silent, almost mesmerized, watching Canute at work in the kitchen. As the boy carefully stirred the plokkfiskur, the delicate yet unmistakable aroma of fish, enriched with herbs and a hint of butter, began to fill the kitchen with a warm, reassuring embrace. It was an intense scent, one that teased his senses and sparked his appetite.
The honey on his lips had almost completely absorbed by now, and Thorfinn ran his tongue over them, a gesture that made the hunger in his stomach feel like a gaping void. Saying he was hungry would have been a massive understatement.
Moreover, Canute was cooking a dish from his homeland, perhaps to put him at ease, to make him feel like he could be at home here, too. He didn’t know for sure.
All Thorfinn knew in that moment was that he couldn’t take his eyes off him.
5
Ragnar stocked up on rugbrød med pålæg and a generous portion of plokkfiskur before returning to his study.
"I have a ton of paperwork to read and sign, along with plenty of bureaucratic matters to take care of," he justified, holding a tray full of food. "Besides, I see that young master Canute has tended to all your wounds, so there’s no need for me to stay here with you. But I’m still available if you need anything."
And with that, he made his exit once again. That man was acting strange.
"What’s up with him?" Thorfinn asked as he sat at the table. At its center lay what remained of the rugbrød med pålæg after Ragnar had loaded up his own tray, but it was still a small visual masterpiece: the rye bread, with its rustic crust and warm brown tones, contrasted with the vibrant colors of the cold cuts and garnishes, shades of red, orange, and a touch of green that spoke of fresh ingredients.
His stomach sent a very clear signal: Eat something right now, or I’ll make you pass out on the spot.
Canute filled two plates with plokkfiskur, handed one to Thorfinn, and then took his own seat across from him. "I think… I think he’s doing everything he can to leave us alone," he replied thoughtfully, lowering his gaze slightly.
"I noticed that too. But I don’t get why."
Canute smiled, a little embarrassed. His cheeks flushed slightly as he whispered, "This is the first time I’ve invited a classmate over for dinner."
So much noise. Too much noise. His ears were filled with that unfamiliar sound, pounding so loudly it hurt.
Thorfinn’s heart was racing.
He didn’t respond. But he made it clear to Canute that, deep down, it pleased him by going for seconds on the plokkfiskur.
6
"Are you sure you want to watch this movie?"
Thorfinn was sprawled out on the living room couch, the remote in hand, with a strange sense of disbelief reflected in his gaze, even though his interlocutor couldn’t see it.
The selected movie poster was a spectacle of everything most atrocious and horrifying that could possibly exist on the face of the planet, a show he was all too familiar with, unlike Canute, who preferred completely different genres, the polar opposite of his tastes. Thorfinn strongly doubted that Ragnar was a fan of horror and, for that reason, would never have allowed Canute to watch such films, at least not in his presence. And Canute wasn’t the type to do these things in secret, Thorfinn would have bet on it.
"Absolutely sure," Canute replied as he returned from the kitchen with a pack of salted licorice in hand.
He hadn’t undone his ponytail, a trivial detail, yet one Thorfinn still noticed, and it warmed his cheeks just slightly — he had been noticing too many things about Canute lately.
When Canute sat down next to him, Thorfinn adjusted himself on the couch, fingers ready to dig into the jar of salted licorice. He grabbed a piece and glanced at the movie poster once again.
"You won’t last three minutes," he declared, snatching the pack from Canute’s hand.
"Very likely, but every once in a while, I’d like to try watching something different," Canute justified, shrugging. "I just hope Ragnar doesn’t walk into the living room during a particularly violent scene."
"Or during the explicit sex scene that’s going to happen halfway through the movie."
"What?"
"What?"
7
Against all odds, Canute managed to last fifteen minutes.
"It doesn’t seem that scary," he had naively remarked at the beginning, a clear sign that he wasn’t at all ready for what was about to happen. He stopped talking after the first gruesome scene, tensing up and completely forgetting about the pack of salted licorice in Thorfinn’s hands. Thorfinn, on the other hand, was enjoying the movie, even though he knew it by heart.
It was around the middle of the film, shortly after what was supposed to be the explicit sex scene — Thorfinn had exaggerated the whole thing just to see Canute’s reaction — when it happened. Should he have seen it coming? Maybe.
But when it did, he barely understood what was going on: in a reflex driven by sheer terror, Canute clung to him tightly, without even realizing it. With his head pressed against Thorfinn’s chest, his hands gripping the already crumpled fabric of his hoodie, and his body trembling, Canute displayed a vulnerability that shook him to the core.
Thorfinn knew that this kind of movie wasn’t for him, and he had expected him to get scared; what he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that the boy would cling to him with such force it nearly knocked the breath out of him. His scent filled Thorfinn’s senses, sweet, like winter flowers defying the frost just to bloom.
It happened in an instant: something inside him shifted, an instinct to protect others that he didn’t think he possessed.
He wrapped an arm around Canute’s shoulders and whispered, "It’s okay." to which Canute responded by pressing even closer against his chest.
Thorfinn grabbed the remote and paused the movie. They remained silent for several minutes, curled up on the couch in that slightly awkward embrace, perhaps new for both of them. How long had it been since he had experienced physical contact like this? Months, maybe years. Everything felt so peaceful now, like the stillness of a lake without ripple, a peace earned after years of struggles and hardships.
(For a moment, he thought it would be nice to live like this.)
"How do you even watch this kind of stuff?" Canute asked, lifting his gaze to the frozen image on the TV screen.
"You get used to it," Thorfinn replied. "At this point, I’m numb to it."
"I figured as much. We can keep watching if you want."
"Are you sure? We don’t have to finish it."
Canute let out a deep sigh, adjusting himself more comfortably against Thorfinn’s chest. "I’m not that scared anymore," he admitted. "But only if we stay like this."
Thorfinn ran his tongue over his lips. A faint taste of honey still lingered on the wound.
"Alright."
8
"Do you want me to ask Ragnar to take you home?"
"Please, no."
Canute let out a small laugh. "At least let me lend you a coat. It’s pretty cold tonight. Honestly, what were you thinking, going out with just a hoodie?"
Thorfinn shrugged. "I just wanted to get some fresh air. Though things spiraled out of control pretty quickly."
"I see." Canute didn’t say anything more.
And in that moment, as silence settled gracefully around them, Thorfinn realized that Canute hadn’t asked for any explanation about what had happened. He had welcomed him into his home, treated his wounds, and even invited him to stay for dinner. All of this despite knowing that Thorfinn had gotten himself into a fight, venting his anger on someone else and reacting to provocations without hesitation.
He hadn’t judged him. He had been kind and caring, had even clung to him with all his strength when he got scared during the horror movie.
And Thorfinn, through it all, had felt like just another ordinary guy. Not when Canute had tended to his wounds, nor when they had sat across from each other at dinner, though those moments had played their part. He had felt different in the instant he had rested his arm on Canute’s shoulders, when he had protected him — in his own way — from fear.
(He had protected him without clenching his fists. He had protected him simply by staying by his side.)
"Alright, I’m heading out. See you tomorrow," he said, hand resting on the front door handle.
"Wait, let me get you a coat."
"There’s no need, I’m not cold."
Thorfinn opened the door, and the night’s chill stung his cheeks. "You’ve already done enough. Don’t trouble yourself any further."
The truth was, he was warm. Because those fragments of humanity clinging to his skin were searing, and he didn’t know how to shake them off. Though, deep down, maybe he didn’t want to let go of them at all.
"There’s nothing I wouldn’t do again." Canute said this with a gentle smile.
"Even watching a horror movie?" Thorfinn teased with a smirk.
"If you’re there, why not?"
The smirk died on his lips.
The weight of those words was as powerful as the collapsed core of a star, a truth slowly unraveling before him, one he had no way of resisting: maybe the two of them were no longer just classmates.
Discovering what they were becoming, however, terrified him, because some feelings had the power to hurl a person into the depths of despair — and he knew that. He knew it deep down, down to his very core.
That was how they said goodbye to each other that night. Saying everything and nothing at the same time. Brushing against each other with their gazes.
Searching for each other through the sleepless night, swallowed by the memory of their bodies close, intertwined in their own way.
At the very least, they were both under the same winter sky.
Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other.
— Rainer Maria Rilke