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The messy Swede just couldn’t take a hint.
Of course, Lalli should have known that; if a bowl of soup to the face didn’t drive him off, silent avoidance wouldn’t either. But it still caught him by surprise the first time he looked up from his solitary meal and saw Emil there, perching on a camp stool with his own bowl of steaming slop. Lalli ignored him, naturally. So what if Emil decided to eat closer to Lalli than the rest of the crew? It was probably some weird Swedish habit of his. No concern of Lalli’s.
Except, it kept happening. As the days went by and Lalli trotted ahead of the tank for hours at a time, the crew fell into a routine. Break camp, scout for a safe route, drive the tank, and repeat until it was time to camp again for the evening. Every time they stopped long enough for Mikkel to cook, Lalli would slink off with his bowl so he wouldn’t have to listen to people having conversations he couldn’t understand. And inevitably, Emil would follow him.
The first time could have been a coincidence. The second time might have too, though Emil’s ‘casual’ slouch against the tree looked suspiciously posed. By the time Emil came and sat directly on the rock where Lalli was sitting, despite the abundance of other rocks, Lalli knew none of it was accidental.
Why is he doing this? Is he trying to keep an eye on me so I don’t throw food in his face again? That didn’t seem right though; surely if Emil was concerned about another soup incident, it would be easier to avoid Lalli instead. Especially when Lalli took such pains to find out-of-the-way eating spots. Every time they ate, he chose a seat farther and farther from the tank. But somehow, every time they ate, Emil found an excuse to edge closer.
It became a challenge, after a while. How far away could he get before someone—Tuuri—had to ask him to come back? How far from the tank was Emil willing to follow him?
The third time they lost half a day to engine trouble, Lalli found out. Most of the team was distracted by the billowing smoke, hovering over Tuuri’s shoulder to ask questions and offer unsolicited advice. From the increasingly filthy nature of Tuuri’s muttered Finnish, she didn’t appreciate the help. She had her hands full, up to her elbows in engine grease and surrounded by piles of mechanical entrails. So she didn’t notice when Lalli slipped off. Even if she had, she was too busy to stop him.
There were no hills to block his view of the tank or muffle the sounds of ailing engine and excitable humans, so Lalli made for the trees. The sparse copse wasn’t enough for real privacy, but it gave the illusion, at least. He could almost believe he was alone, if he didn’t look back.
But Lalli did glance back, and though not much had changed at the campsite—smoke still spewed from the tank’s gaping mouth, Tuuri still stood on her booster box to see inside—there was one significant difference. Emil no longer waited next to Tuuri and the others. He was halfway between the tank and Lalli’s trees, and getting closer all the time.
The sight of him squeezed Lalli’s heart. He just keeps coming. Doesn’t he have anything more important to do? Apparently not. Well, Lalli had plenty of better things to do than watching Emil approach. Like scanning the sky for birds, or eyeing the trees to see if there were any more tasty morsels running around, like that squirrel he’d caught the other day. He strained his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary—in case of trolls, of course. But even with all his finely-tuned senses, Lalli had to admit there was nothing coming. Except for the footsteps growing steadily closer.
Just ignore him. He’ll get here, eat his food, and then go back to the others. Just like always. Except, it wasn’t meal time, and Emil didn’t have a steaming bowl in his hands. But he did have something in his hands when he arrived, leaves crunching under his boots, and walked past Lalli. That was new. Unexpected. Lalli didn’t know what to think.
Emil only went a few steps past Lalli before he turned and held out his hands. Two cookies nestled in his palms. Lalli reacted without thinking; he had one in his hand and halfway to his mouth before he realized he’d just broken all of his rules about ignoring Emil, and Emil was looking directly at him. He didn’t look angry or upset, just...serious. Maybe a little worried.
“Lalli.”
The cookie paused just short of Lalli’s lips. That voice. So determined to chatter on at him, knowing full well that Lalli didn’t, couldn’t understand. It twisted like a knife in his chest to hear Emil say his name, one of the few words that required no translation. Lalli wanted to stop him before he could say anything else. He also wanted him to keep talking forever. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted...too much. He put the cookie between his teeth and bit down.
Emil kept going. “I know you can’t understand this. I...wish I could talk so you could understand. Tuuri offered to teach me some Finnish, but she’s been really busy with the new books, and now the tank is on fire. Which is totally not my fault!” The last part seemed hastily added, and Emil smoothed his hair the way he did when he was nervous. Maybe he was apologizing for something. Stupid, Emil wasn’t the one who needed to apologize. That was Lalli. Or had Emil forgotten about the soup?
“Not your fault,” Lalli muttered. He blinked, nearly dropped the cookie. He’d spoken out loud.
Emil looked surprised too, blue eyes wide and eyebrows disappearing beneath his golden hair. Then his face relaxed into a smile. “You talked! I thought you’d never talk to me again! Lalli I’m so relieved, I wasn’t sure what I’d done but I couldn’t stand knowing you were mad at me and—damn. I’m sorry, I’m babbling and you still don’t know what I’m saying.”
This time Lalli caught what he thought was a Swedish expletive; he recognized it from the time Emil had nearly set his own hair on fire last week. He hadn’t even been using his flamethrower, just leaned too close to the cookfire. The memory made Lalli’s lips twitch.
Emil noticed. “Was that a smile?” He tapped a finger to his own mouth, where the widening grin made translation unnecessary.
Lalli swallowed hard. He really isn’t mad at me? He can’t be, not if he’s smiling like that. Maybe he forgot about the soup. Maybe he remembers, and he just doesn’t care. There was no way to know. He couldn’t ask directly, and there was no way he would have Tuuri ask for him. But if Emil didn’t hate him, then...there was no reason to ask. No reason to do anything that required translation in the first place. And plenty of reasons to do what he’d been wanting to do ever since he’d woken up from a dream where Emil stood over him and smiled like he was smiling now.
So Lalli caught Emil by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him. He kept his eyes open; after avoiding Emil’s gaze for so long, he wanted all of it now. He wanted to see Emil’s reaction. Needed to see it, to know if he’d handed Emil a cookie or thrown another bowl of soup in his face. First, surprise: blue eyes widened, mouth rigid and unsure. Lalli caught the hesitation, started to pull away—then joy flooded in, and Emil had a hand in Lalli’s hair and kissed him back. After that, Lalli didn’t need his eyes to tell him that all was forgiven.
Afterwards, Lalli smoothed Emil’s hair until the loose strands fell back into place. Emil straightened Lalli's hair in return, then offered the crumbled remains of the other cookie, forgotten but not lost, with a sheepish smile. They picked the fragments from Emil’s glove and shared them, and Lalli was sure this cookie was sweeter than the first.
It still stung, not knowing what Emil or the others were saying. He still resented them for not knowing Finnish, resented himself for not knowing any other language. But as he and Emil walked back to the tank, bumping shoulders and brushing hands too often for it to be accidental, Lalli no longer felt so alone. Maybe they could learn to talk to him. Maybe he could learn, too.
Maybe the next time Mikkel cooked, Lalli would sit a little closer to the tank.