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“I know you’re not sleeping, bastard.”
The night air was thick with the scent of ash and damp wood. A good distance away, the chatter of men feasting on stolen silver and meat had long since faded, leaving only dying embers. Perpetrators as they were of the old nordic tradition of plundering and killing.
Quitting the facade of fake slumber, Askeladd opened his eyes but made no further movements. He stared up at his night visitor; Thorfinn, perched brazenly atop his thighs. The boy’s usual catlike scowl was there, but twisted, laced with something rather unfamiliar on his young face.
“What are you doing, lad.”
“Shut up.”
Askeladd’s eyes narrowed, catching the blood stains smeared across Thorfinn’s clothes and the dark rim under his nails.
“I can smell your breath from here.”
“Shut up,” Thorfinn repeated, more slurred this time.
Askeladd propped himself up on one elbow with deliberate slowness, like an old wolf shifting in its den. “Come here.” He reached for the boy’s face, letting him sit there like it was the most natural thing to them. In truth, it nearly was. In that bizarre, violent kind of non-sexual intimacy that was the main feature of their endless, stupid little duels.
Thorfinn slapped Askeladd’s hand away with brows knit, but the defiance was marred by sluggish clumsiness. His movements betrayed him.
The brat reeked of mead and blood. Askeladd clicked his tongue. It would take no effort to sweep him off and grind him into the dirt. An inexperienced drunken lightweight with poor control over his body stood no chance against a mind on its full senses, sharpened by the years with a natural talent for killing.
Yet, here the lad was, wobbling and soft at the edges. Walking willingly into the wolf's den. Stupid lad.
“For someone who sneaked here to sit on my lap without my consent,” Askeladd said, dry amusement lacing every syllable, “you’re acting shy. Come here. I want to check something.”
Before Thorfinn could bark, Askeladd’s fingers were on his jaw, rough and unyielding. Thorfinn’s lips parted instinctively under the pressure as Askeladd tilted his head, pulling him closer.
And then, bizarrely, the boy went slack. Eyelids heavy and one hand limp atop Askeladd’s own was all the resistance the old man faced as Thorfinn's defiance bled away in a breath. It was an unusual sight on someone like Thorfinn for sure. It never ceased to amaze how some alcohol could turn a cutthroat into a red-faced waif.
“You’re drunk off your ass,” Askeladd muttered, studying him like one would a rusty coin. “And you’re missing teeth." More than I knocked out of you. "Who did this?”
A pause followed, and then Thorfinn’s answer came not in words, but in a sharp and bloody wad of spit splattered across Askeladd’s cheek. A bratty display of rebellion, yet Thorfinn’s arms still hung uselessly at his sides, making no attempt to push Askeladd away. Pure venom without fangs.
Unfazed, Askeladd wiped his face clean with the back of a hand before hurling Thorfinn onto the bed of furs with the ease of tossing aside a sack of damp grain. The boy landed with a grunt, too far gone to resist and too drunk to rise.
Askeladd hovered over him and let his shadow fall heavily across Thorfinn’s flushed face. He caught his chin again, tilting his head to expose the mouth, the broken teeth and the faint trace of blood at the gumline.
“Who knocked those teeth out of your skull?” he asked again in a low voice. "Did you kill him?"
Thorfinn’s eyes were glassy, refusing to focus. His lips fumbled for words, and what finally slipped out was barely audible.
“Didn’t… win.”
The confession hung in the air like smoke from the ashes. Askeladd studied him for a moment that seemed way longer, before he released the chin with a soft snort.
“Of course you didn’t,” he said. “Half a man and twice a fool.”
“You talk too much,” Thorfinn muttered angrily, sounding more like himself despite the slurred words. “Makes me feel like vomiting.”
“I don’t think that would be my fault this time.”
“Shut up.”
Askeladd chuckled low and rough, letting it trail into the quiet as he pulled back. “You better not do it on the bed, though. I’ll kick your ass if you do.”
“…Didn’t drink… with you.”
“Oh?” Askeladd raised a brow. Thorfinn remained quiet for another short moment.
“Nightmare,” he slurred, dragging the word like a wound. “…Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop… everything inside was buzzing. I couldn't stand it any longer.”
Askeladd stared, not expecting Thorfinn's sudden burst of drunken honesty.
“So, I drank. I fought. Couldn’t… stop myself. Didn’t care… didn’t… couldn't think.”
“You lost control,” the man said, his tone somewhere between flat and contemplative. “That’s all I see.”
“...Didn't,” Thorfinn added, mumbling with a voice that sounded as weak as little bird bones. “Didn’t… mean to. Just… couldn’t. Couldn’t stop.”
Shifting to sit closer to the edge of the bed, Askeladd rested an elbow on his raised knee, studying the boy sprawled on the furs. The fire crackled low and shadows stretched across the walls. So no one had pushed him like he initially suspected. The chaos came entirely from within, from an impulse to silence the noise, like a dog gnawling on his leash, then on his own skin.
Thorfinn’s chest rose and fell unevenly. Perhaps, Askeladd recognized the pattern, seeing some echoes of his own old recklessness before he had learned to tame it. Yet, despite the remarkable talent that set the boy apart, his deadly instinct, his usefulness—Thorfinn’s fire remained wild and unshaped no matter what; control too fragile for someone to last long in the shithole they lived in. Destined to burn out quick if left unchanged.
This was no longer a boy proving himself, but a dog cornered by his own chaos.
And then, Thorfinn had come here. Not asking for comfort, nor trying to cut him down in his sleep, that much was evident. Just seeking somewhere to land for a night of vulnerability, maybe. A familiar presence amidst the storm. Perhaps seeking a grounding force despite the anger and pain and the hatred he fueled himself with. Despite that source of stability being also the cause of all of his pain. Such was his desperation, his fragility. His need for respite. Perhaps.
It's none of your fucking business, he could hear Thorfinn's bratty, venom-laced voice breaking the sound of his own thoughts. But he didn't need to worry about that. He wasn't about to ask.
Askeladd’s hand lingered atop Thorfinn’s head, ruffling his hair in a quiet, grounding gesture. Knowing the lad would take it to the grave, bury it deep first thing in the morning, if he ever remembers it. When he began to pull away though, Thorfinn leaned towards him, catching his arm, clumsily yet purposeful, silently demanding him to stay. Askeladd’s eyes flickered down, taking in how small Thorfinn looked next to him.
“So,” he said, letting Thorfinn’s insistence distract him from the thought. “That blood on you… I take it you didn’t manage to decapitate some unlucky bastard tonight?”
Thorfinn tilted his head, brushing against Askeladd’s shoulder as the man settled comfortably beside him. “Fuck off.”
“Right. Let me guess, Bjorn dragged you off like a pup with its teeth sunk in the wrong throat?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s a yes.”
Thorfinn's hand slid up, catching the fabric of Askeladd’s tunic in a fist.
That would explain why he had stumbled in bloodied but breathing. Askeladd guessed the boy had slipped away afterward, letting everyone think he'd gone off to lick his wounds somewhere in solitude. Too proud to let anyone suspect he would come seeking him instead with his tail tucked between his legs. Not that anyone would even suspect that anyway.
“You owe him. More than you'll ever admit.” Askeladd remarked, amused. The brat really did owe Bjorn, and whoever else decided to broke it off. Drunken brawls among the men commonly ended up in death.
Thorfinn’s reply came muffled against him. “I don’t owe anyone anything. Least of all that scum. Least of all you.”
“Mm. Big words for someone clutching me like a damn blanket.”
That earned him a low, dangerous growl. “I’ll gut you if you don’t shut your mouth.”
“You can try,” Askeladd said, heavy arm dropping around the boy, half in restraint, half in invitation. The familiar warmth of their bodies collided like their words, but slowed into something quieter.
Thorfinn fit in his arms perfectly like the sea cradling a piece of driftwood.
“Drown yourself in mead and flail like a mad dog all you want,” Askeladd murmured. “Won’t change a damn thing.”
“Neither will you running your mouth,” Thorfinn shot back, voice still weak and slurred and teeth clenched, but instead of moving away he pressed closer, betraying the hostility, head burrowing harder against Askeladd’s chest like a wounded bird folding into shelter.
“Pathetic,” Askeladd said softly.
“Bastard,” Thorfinn hissed. His grip only tightened.
“I should teach you how to drink,” Askeladd added. “At least then you won’t humiliate yourself in front of wicked pigs.”
“You’re the only wicked pig here.”
Askeladd huffed a laugh, low and genuine. The boy clung tighter in silence, anger blunted by exhaustion. He wasn't exactly wrong.
Then Askeladd pressed him even closer.
“You still want to kill me, right?” his voice was a whisper on Thorfinn's ear now. If he wanted some grounding, he was going to have it. “Good. Better stay alive for it. Right?”
Thorfinn’s shudder didn't go unnoticed. “Don't forget that,” he heard the boy mumbling back after a while, muffled by the lack of space between their bodies.
"Indeed."
Thorfinn's breathing evened out as time flew by. His hand remained clenched in Askeladd’s tunic. His small body surrounded by the scent of the man he sworn to kill. They didn’t speak of it when the night turned to dawn.
