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February 1991.
It was one of those cold mornings where everything felt pointlessly still. Nothing exciting was happening, really, though Dead wasn’t living up to his name today. He was hunched over some old ideas, sketching quirky stuff about semla, that Swedish dessert he used to obsess over. Euronymous wasn’t doing much either. Just hanging around, half-watching Dead, half-provoking him because apparently multitasking for Øystein meant babysitting and psychological warfare.
Same shit, different day.
The guitarist pretended not to care about whatever he was doing. Dead was zombie-walking toward the kitchen, clutching some crumpled paper like it mattered. Euronymous squinted. Was he going for another knife? Looking for weird ingredients again? It was always a toss-up with Dead.
He didn’t usually go into the kitchen in the morning. Unless, well… he planned to end it there.
He kept stumbling, too. Could barely walk in a straight line.
Euronymous had stopped finding it funny after the third time Dead tried to get creative with the shotgun.
Maybe now he was acting a little more alive just to throw everyone off, so no one would see it coming next time.
And even with Euronymous shadowing him like a ghost, Pelle could feel him there.
He glanced over his shoulder, squinting, but said nothing. Just kept doing whatever cryptic thing he was up to.
Euronymous, deadpan as ever, leaned against the wall and pretended he just happened to be headed in the same direction. He rubbed at his eyes like he’d just woken up, then wandered over to the fridge.
“Sup?” Pelle muttered, not even looking his way.
“Huh? Food,” Øystein replied flatly.
“Same.”
It sounded like Pelle was trying to make conversation, or at least, that’s what Øystein told himself.
“The February vibes are killing me,” Øystein muttered, still poking aimlessly through the fridge.
“The cold?” Pelle asked without much interest.
“Nope. The Valentine’s shit. How has no one died from Cupid’s arrow yet?”
Pelle let out a humorless snort. “Everyone dies when Cupid shoots. They die in this shitty little thing called love.”
Øystein leaned back, shutting the fridge with a dull thud. “Thing is, it’s not little, you dummy. It takes a lifetime to grow and people still shove it under the same cheesy stereotypes of marriage and forever.”
“I hate all those ideas,” Pelle muttered, sniffling a bit like his nose had been at war with the weather.
“Yeah, yeah. And what’re you doing up this early, huh? Doesn’t seem like you,” Øystein said, now resting one arm lazily on the fridge door. He watched Pelle shuffle around with that piece of paper, half-hunched, like a ghost trying to do something alive.
There was something strange about it… about him. His movements were aimless but fixated, like he didn’t fully know what he was doing here, just that he had to do it.
“Need help?” Øystein asked, more out of instinct than concern, or so he told himself.
Pelle blinked at him. “Maybe. This oven hates me.”
Øystein raised an eyebrow. “The hell are you even doing?”
Pelle held up the paper like it was sacred. “Semla.”
“You’re baking semla?”
“I thought… I might like it if I made it myself. Dunno.” He shrugged, but his voice was low, like the thought embarrassed him.
Øystein snorted. “What, you gonna die less tragically if you’ve tasted cardamom buns before?”
“Maybe I’ll haunt people smelling like almonds and disappointment.”
“That’s already your brand.”
They stood there for a beat, the silence just awkward enough to feel like it mattered.
“Well,” Øystein sighed, dragging his feet toward the counter. “If you burn the house down, I’m blaming Sweden.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t know how to measure flour.”
“Measuring is for people with hope.”
“Then why are you helping?”
“I’m... bored.”
Pelle gave him a look that was half-glare, half-smirk. “You’re the worst liar.”
Øystein didn’t respond. He just turned the oven knob, quietly.
The Norwegian leaned against the counter, watching Pelle measure flour with this strange, serious look on his face like the fate of the world hinged on how level a cup was.
He tilted his head. “What if I poisoned mine?”
Pelle didn’t look up. “Then I’d switch them when you’re not looking.”
Øystein smirked faintly. “Touché.”
But the thought lingered. Not the poisoning part—he didn’t care that much—but the idea of difference. His version of semla wouldn’t be normal. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t even sure what normal was supposed to taste like. He’d never had one. But he could tell when something looked too clean, too polished. Like it was faking happiness.
There were bakeries like that, with those glossy display-case kinds where every pastry looked like a lie.
He hated those.
Maybe that’s what made this weird little experiment with Pelle feel… almost real. They were just two messed-up people, fumbling through flour and butter, trying to make something that wouldn’t collapse. Or maybe it would collapse and they’d just laugh, or fight, or ignore it.
“Do you ever think,” Øystein said suddenly, tone quieter than usual, “that if you make something good, it means you’re not completely broken?”
Pelle looked at him then. Really looked. His eyes were a little puffy from the cold, or maybe from not sleeping, but he didn’t blink.
“I think,” he said, carefully, “it just means you tried.”
There was a pause. The mixer whirred between them like a nervous tick.
“And if it sucks?” Øystein asked.
“Then it’s ours,” Pelle said. “And we eat it anyway.”
Øystein laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. He leaned over, snatched a piece of dough from the bowl, and popped it in his mouth.
“Disgusting,” he said, chewing.
“Not done yet,” Pelle murmured. But there was something weirdly warm in his voice. Not happy, just… alive.
“And anyway, I like my semla disgusting,” Pelle said, watching him chew with that deadpan half-interest. “You just kinda demonstrated it.”
Øystein shrugged, brushing flour off his fingers. “You’re welcome. I enhance the authenticity.”
Pelle gave a soft huff, maybe a laugh, maybe not. His stomach tightened, but it wasn’t just the hunger. It was the kind of weird feeling that sat between your ribs when something unfamiliar crept in.
Not danger.
Not dread.
Just... something else.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation that wasn’t about death, music, or the void that lived in his bones.
And Øystein—of all people—was here, talking like this. Not mocking, not cold, just... here. Present in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.
“This is weird,” Pelle muttered, more to himself than to Øystein.
Øystein raised an eyebrow. “You mean us not threatening to destroy each other every ten minutes?”
“That. And... you being kinda tolerable.”
Øystein smirked. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Pelle didn’t respond. He just stared down at the semla dough, watching his hands move on autopilot.
“I think I forget how to talk to people sometimes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “When it’s not about... dying. Or screaming into a mic. Or pushing everything away.”
There was a long pause. The oven clicked behind them, ready.
Øystein didn’t crack a joke this time. He just leaned on the counter beside him.
“Maybe that’s why we’re in a kitchen right now, making something dumb,” he said. “ Just... failing at baking. Together.”
Pelle looked at him. “That’s weirdly poetic.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Maybe you alone can understand most of my poems,” Pelle mumbled, giving a lazy kick at the floor like there was something crawling there. There wasn’t. He just needed to move, like needed to pretend Øystein hadn’t just made things too easy to breathe.
Øystein blinked, slowly. He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Pelle for a second, head tilted like he was trying to decide whether to make fun of him or say something real.
He picked both.
“Maybe that’s because I’m as messed up as you are,” he said flatly, pushing the baking tray into the oven with an unnecessary clang.
Pelle half-smirked. “Yeah, well. Takes one to read one.”
There was a beat. The oven ticked behind them, and the faint smell of cardamom was starting to sneak into the room like something warm trying to elbow its way into a cold space.
“I do read them,” Øystein added, quieter this time.
Pelle glanced sideways, surprised.
“Your lyrics. The stuff you leave in weird places. I don’t get all of it, but I get you in it.”
Pelle didn’t speak. His foot stopped twitching.
“And anyway,” Øystein said, grabbing two mugs like it was nothing, “if I didn’t get it, I wouldn’t be standing here baking Swedish ghost buns with you.”
Pelle stared at him, mouth quirking at the corners like he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or just throw flour at his face.
“Don’t say ghost buns again.”
“Too late. It’s canon now.”
And somehow, in that stupid, ridiculous, quietly perfect moment, Pelle felt more seen than he had in months. Maybe years.
As the kitchen filled with the faintly sweet, slightly burnt aroma of semla, they slumped on opposite sides of the counter like two ghouls pretending to be domestic.
“Imagine if we sold this to The Circle,” Pelle said, poking at a lump of flour on his sleeve. “Homemade semla. Death-approved.”
Øystein cracked a grin. “Call it Bloody Semla. Limited edition. Raw, authentic. Like your first demo, but edible. Like red velvet?” he raised an eyebrow.
Pelle rolled his eyes. “Silly. Red velvet goes from brown to red. This should go red to brown.”
Øystein snorted, half choking on air. “Ah, yeah. Bloody semla sounds impossible.”
“But,” Pelle added, completely deadpan, “our poop is mostly brown, and semla can always stay blood-ish red.”
Øystein barked a laugh, the real kind, rough around the edges. “You’re disgusting.”
“You named it. I just gave it lore.”
“We’re gonna poison someone with this one day.”
“Good,” Pelle said with a shrug. “True art causes suffering.”
They both went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. Just the kind of silence that settles in when you’ve said something stupid and honest at the same time, and neither of you wants to ruin it by making it too real.
Øystein looked down at the mess they made. But everything was put together in harmony. Weirdly stunning.
“Still think it’ll taste like crap,” he muttered.
“Good,” Pelle replied again, this time quieter. “Means it’s ours.”
“Now we’d better try this,” Øystein said, already reaching for the tray with exaggerated urgency, “or else it’ll turn into a ghost like you.”
The buns were lumpy, uneven, suspiciously scorched at the edges. Utterly unphotogenic.
Pelle raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you birthed pastries with such aggression.”
“I’m a visionary.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Semantics.”
Øystein plucked the most misshapen one from the tray, its cream oozing out like it had tried to escape the horror of its own creation. He offered it to Pelle with mock reverence.
“After you, Ghost of Sweden.”
Pelle took it slowly, holding it like it might detonate. “If I die from this, I want my corpse staged with a half-eaten bun in my hand.”
“I’ll make sure the blood-red cream splatters artistically.”
They each took a bite at the same time. Then immediately paused.
The texture was wrong. The cream was weirdly bitter. The cardamom hit way too late. It was objectively awful.
And somehow...
“This is... disgusting,” Pelle muttered through a chew.
“Absolutely vile,” Øystein agreed.
They looked at each other.
Then burst out laughing. Some real, full-body laughter, the kind that startled even themselves.
It wasn’t the bun. It wasn’t even the joke. It was the feeling of being here, together, alive and absurd and just okay for a minute.
“Bloody Semla,” Øystein gasped between laughs. “It lives up to the name.”
Pelle wiped his mouth, face flushed. “We really are idiots.”
“Yeah,” Øystein said, still smiling. “But at least we’re our kind of idiots.”
And just like that, the cold didn’t feel quite as sharp anymore.
“...I hope I’m not falling in love with you for helping me make my dream homemade bakery,” Pelle said.
It was a joke. Probably. It had the cadence of one, loose and tossed out like trash.
But something in Øystein's brain snagged on the tone. Too soft. Too unguarded. The way Pelle’s eyes didn’t quite meet his when he said it.
Øystein took another dramatic bite of the ruined semla, making a show of chewing like it took all his focus. He needed the noise. The motion. Something to fill the space.
“You hope?” he said, voice dry as chalk. “I thought you’d lost it all already.”
He didn’t look up when he said it. Didn’t want to see the reaction. He wasn’t ready for the version of Pelle that existed in that sentence. He wasn't used to the ache that came with something gentle hiding behind sarcasm. That wasn’t their language.
Their language was noise. Destruction. Control.
Not semla.
Not this.
But damn it, the words still rang in his ears. “Falling in love.” Spoken like a mockery, sure. But Øystein had known Pelle long enough to hear when a joke was actually a fear in costume.
And the worst part?
He didn’t hate it.
He chewed in silence, nodding as if to himself. “This bakery’s doomed,” he added finally, reaching for another bun. “But if you’re gonna fall for someone over a tragic pastry, guess I should be flattered.”
His hand brushed Pelle’s wrist when he reached. Just for a second.
Too long.
“I don’t wanna die in love, Øystein,” Pelle said, shaking his head, smiling that too-bright smile. It almost worked. The way he said it, like it was just a joke, just another one of those lines they threw around when the conversation got too heavy. But Øystein felt the weight of it. The kind of weight that didn’t belong in a stupid kitchen over half-baked pastries.
Still, Øystein pretended to chew, pretending that it was all part of the game. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. He was just... curious.
“Are you actually falling in love?” he asked, his voice light, teasing, but there was something else under it. Something sharp and waiting.
He wanted an answer. An honest one. Something clear.
Pelle didn’t respond right away. Instead, he took a bite, the motion slow, like he was trying to chew away the heaviness that had just filled the room. Øystein could see the hesitation in his eyes, the way his lips pressed together like he was trying to trap something inside.
“Not in a way that I consent to it,” Pelle muttered, sniffing and almost choking on the bite. It was a weak deflection that Øystein didn’t let slip by.
He watched Pelle for a long moment, letting the silence hang between them like an unsaid truth.
That was honest. In a weird, roundabout way. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Øystein leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes searching. “So what is that, then? Some kind of... half-love?” He said it with a bitter edge, masking something deeper. A kind of raw curiosity he didn’t know how to deal with.
Pelle’s eyes flicked up at him, and for a second, Øystein swore he saw something break behind them. It wasn’t the usual defensiveness. No, this time it was... something else. Something like longing. Or maybe regret.
“Call it whatever you want,” Pelle said quietly. “But I don’t know what the hell this is, Øystein.”
The words hit Øystein like a slap. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t know why, but he needed to hear more. He needed to know. He leaned in even closer, voice lower, more insistent.
“You don’t know?” Øystein’s words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but he wasn’t done. “What if you did know? What if it wasn’t just some... accident? You think you can push that away?”
Pelle’s gaze dropped to the semla, the last bit of it still in his hand. His fingers trembled slightly as he set it back on the plate, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I’m better off not knowing.”
Øystein felt a sharp pang of something pierce through his chest. He wanted to say something, to push harder, to demand answers. But the truth was, he wasn’t ready for those answers. Not yet.
He sat back, arms crossed, the teasing mask back in place, even though it didn’t feel as natural anymore. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t blame me when they start eating you alive.”
For a moment, it was quiet again. A different kind of quiet. And Øystein hated how much he didn’t want to leave it at that.
"Well and I hope I’m not convicted for making someone fall in love," Øystein said, trying to kill the awkwardness before it turned into something they both had to talk about. He said it like a joke, quick, sharp, but his mind wouldn’t stop playing with the words. The way Pelle said "falling in love" made it sound like a crime. Or maybe it was the way Øystein couldn’t help but wonder if it was true.
Pelle didn’t even look up. He just took another bite of the semla awkwardly, like he was chewing away at something deeper than the pastry.
"You would be convicted for letting someone be shot by Cupid’s arrow through the heart," Pelle said, voice dry but with something soft underneath it, like he was trying to escape the weight of the words. "Not now, though. I wanna die in peace, not love, thanks."
Øystein’s stomach tightened, but he played it off, because that’s what he did. He tattered a little laugh, like it was nothing to him. Nothing at all.
"Uh huh," he said, voice thick with a sarcasm that didn’t hide anything. "Just keep dodging the obvious."
Pelle shot him a look, one of those quiet ones, the kind that felt like it said too much without speaking. Øystein ignored it, though. He had to. If he thought about it for too long, he’d be forced to face the fact that they were both dancing around something that wasn’t a joke anymore.
But he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
He glanced down at the semla, his eyes lingering on the mess of it with too much cream, too little sweetness. He could’ve made it better. He could’ve made it perfect. But nothing ever came out right, did it?
“You ever wonder why things never turn out the way you plan?” Øystein said, leaning back and wiping his fingers on his jeans. He didn’t mean to ask it, but it slipped out. “It’s like... nothing ever turns out the way you think it will. And then... you just end up eating that.”
Pelle didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, eyes focused on the half-eaten semla in front of him. Maybe he was considering it. Or maybe he was just trying to avoid Øystein’s gaze, because something in it made the air feel too thick to breathe.
“Yeh,” Pelle finally muttered. “But maybe that’s the point, Øystein. Maybe it’s not about making it perfect. Maybe it’s about making it at all.”
The room went quieter, just for a second, like both of them had finally said too much. Øystein didn’t say anything back. He just let that silence hang in the air. It felt like they were both waiting for something to break, but neither of them had the guts to be the first one to say it out loud.
"You got my respect for keeping this Semla taste disgusting, though," Pelle said, voice dripping with mock admiration. "The idea of falling in love..." He let the words hang in the air, the question just dangling there, like they both knew there was something too real in the joke.
Øystein froze for a split second, staring at the last bite of the semla in his hand. Something about the way Pelle said it felt like more than just a comment on the pastry. It felt like he was throwing the concept of love right in Øystein’s face, making him taste it, even if it was wrapped up in layers of sarcasm.
He stepped back, suddenly defensive, dropping the semla onto the plate with a little too much force. "Hey! As if it was all on me?!" Øystein snapped, feeling the sharp sting of a joke that cut too close. “I didn’t exactly hand you a love recipe, did I? This thing’s trash, just like everything else. But, huh... you're welcome, Dead," Øystein said again, with a tone more careful and casual. "Semla would probably be my best dessert so far, especially the disgusting type."
"Any Semla is basically disgusting," Pelle replied, flat but clear. Then after a pause, he added, "Alright. Thanks so much for your help."
There was a strange quiet that followed, the kind that usually came after arguments, or confessions. Pelle turned slightly, back facing Øystein, pretending to tidy the counter though it didn’t need tidying. His fingers hovered over the crumb trails, brushing them back and forth like he was distracting himself from something heavier.
Øystein didn’t move either. He stood there, lips parted as if he might say something else. Something stupid. Or worse… something honest.
Instead, he said nothing. But his gaze stayed locked on Pelle’s back.
Pelle, still facing the counter, hesitated before grabbing the last semla, the smallest and the most uneven one. The one that looked a little like it had been shaped by accident. He held it for a second, not biting into it. Just... holding it.
“Y’know,” Pelle started, voice softer now, barely above a mutter. “If we ever made another batch… I think I’d put something different in it.”
Øystein blinked. “Like what?”
Pelle didn’t answer. He just turned, the unfinished semla in hand, and gave Øystein the faintest look, unreadable but lingering. Something like maybe he wanted him to guess.
Then he walked past him, brushing his shoulder just slightly.
The contact was barely anything. But it left Øystein standing there, stunned, still staring at the door long after Pelle had disappeared into the hallway. Still holding on to a silence that felt like it meant something.
Somewhere behind the door, Øystein heard Pelle’s low voice
"...Still don’t wanna die in love."
But it was said too softly. Like, maybe, he didn’t mean it anymore.