Chapter Text
Freppa has screwed up, and he knows it. Määnin can tell by the way he’s hunched over in his seat, trying to shrink that ridiculous height down small enough to hide from the swearing ball of rage pacing outside. He’s not making the faintest attempt to argue back; not that he ever really does, or that there’s any point in even talking to Tommy when he gets like this. What’s worse is that they’re attracting an audience: a small crowd of onlookers nursing drinks and watching with increasing fascination as the seconds tick by…which would be fine if they were onstage: less so considering that they’re in the car park, their instruments stashed safely in the boot. As the group expands, and the nudging and pointing starts, Määnin knows he needs to salvage what’s left of his ruined pride…after that performance went through it like a wrecking ball.
Enough is enough.
He winds the window down and leans out as far as he can, right as their singer stomps past - the only thing they’ve timed decently all evening. “Toms, for fuck’s sake get in, and let’s go home. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like hanging around here to get laughed at again.”
Again, because they’ve already been jeered off the stage tonight; taunts and boos following their hasty retreat, accompanied by the odd lobbed beer can. Fortunately, they were empty…or maybe unfortunately, ‘cause at least then he’d have got a drink. It’s not a great start: only their second gig playing together again after they finished their military service; their hair has barely even begun to grow out of the severe cuts, and now his stinks of cheap booze from the can that bounced off his head.
Fucking humiliating.
They didn’t even get paid.
So yeah, he totally gets why Tommy’s fuming, and it’s not even as if this is one of those times when the mouthy singer blames his own failings on whichever poor scapegoat is closest: no, this shitshow is squarely down to their resident beanpole. The one who’s usually digging them out of trouble, not causing it.
Tommy makes once last turn, scowls at the onlookers, and yanks the door open. By now his grumbling might as well be in Finnish for all the sense it’s making, buried under his breath and several layers of irritation as he clambers in with an absolute minimum of grace. Määnin doesn’t need to look to see Freppa’s wide-eyed stare turn away so that he can’t accidentally catch Tommy’s laser glare, as the door slams shut with a bang that makes the two in the front wince and rocks the chassis. Classic Volvos have heavy doors, and Tommy’s kept up with the army workouts: he’s got serious guns these days. (Not that Määnin’s been looking, of course.) Still, there’s no need to take his bad mood out on Mrs Börns. She’s a sturdy girl, but she deserves respect.
No-one says anything more as Freppa starts the engine and they rumble away from the bar; even Tommy has stopped complaining and fallen into a sulky quiet, his arms crossed, pouting in a way that might be considered cute if…well, you know, if you were into him. Unusually, the stereo isn’t even on, so they can all hear that his breathing’s still heavy; and for a worried minute, Määnin wonders whether it’s more than simply the fury causing it: if he’s still feeling the effects of the ‘flu they all came down with a couple of weeks ago. The longer the uncharacteristic silence drags on, the more the unease bubbles. Are Toms’ lungs still recovering from the infection? They didn’t get to anywhere near finish their set, but was belting out the songs they did do too much? Is his voice damaged now?
“Fyrbanna, Freppa!” Ah, no, evidently not. There was plenty of volume to the outburst. “That was the worst I’ve heard you play! We’ll be lucky if we ever get booked here again.”
If he hadn’t got ears, Määnin would be telling Tommy to tone it down; but he has, and that’s the problem: he knows it’s true. However much they practise, the odd small mistake is always going to happen, they’re human; but their performance tonight had been fucking awful. They really sucked, or, more accurately, Freppa sucked. He missed so many cues; fluffed chords and riffs left, right, and centre, as if he’s suddenly forgotten what a guitar is; and even his vocal harmonies were completely out of whack. There’s only so much that a bass and Tommy’s voice (incredible though it is) can do on their own; so if nothing else, the evening has proved they needed the guitar for the songs to sound…well…not shit. They needed Freppa, and he hadn’t been there in anything more than the vaguest sense: Määnin’s never seen him fall apart so badly, not even in their very early days when the stage fright had frozen him near solid.
Speaking of which, he seems to have turned to stone at Tommy’s words, gripping the wheel like it’s a lifebelt. “I’m sorry. I thought I was over it…thought I’d be okay by now.”
Oh. A hot flash of guilt tears through Määnin: there he was worrying about Tommy, and it’s Freppa who’s still sick. Which…actually makes sense, now he thinks about it. They were all ill at the same time, to varying degrees: and although to hear Tommy talk about it, you’d think he was at death’s door; it was really Freppa who suffered the most. Their lanky friend barely ate anything for nearly a week, existing almost entirely on cartons of Trip; and he’s still drinking far more than normal. So Määnin has sympathy (he really does: the bug made him feel horrible, and he was the one who got off lightest), but only up to the point that it imploded their entire gig.
Tommy feels the same, going on the way he gawps, grasping at words that won’t come just for a second. “Are you serious? It would have been better if you’d just told us that you weren’t up to it: we could have cancelled instead of embarrassing ourselves in front of an entire town.” Possibly an over-exaggeration: it was one bar…although word does travel.
“I know that now,” Freppa genuinely looks like he might cry, “but I didn’t want to let you guys down.”
Tommy snorts so hard it must hurt. “Yeah, well, it’s a bit late for that.” And ouch, because that’s a bit too much like Stage Tommy, and less like their Toms.
They have their performing personas; something they agreed on years back, when they began thrashing out the basics of their first songs. It’s a way of hyping themselves up to get in front of a crowd who might well be the same people that made their lives varying circles of hell in school. They don’t play characters, as such – Vörjeans is about keeping music real – but they exaggerate themselves a little, for bravado’s sake. That doesn’t mean that Offstage Määnin is all unicorn farts and scented candles; but he’s not a heartless bastard either. And neither is Tommy. Usually.
“What I think Tommy meant,” and he peers over his sunglasses with a raised eyebrow that’s aimed firmly into the back seat, “is that we’re a team, Freps: if any one of us isn’t okay to perform, then we all need to know. We’ve got a reputation to maintain.” He hopes it goes without saying that more importantly, Freppa is their friend, and if he’s not well…
That thought is very abruptly cut short as he takes his eyes off the driver, and glances at the road. They may have left the bar a good couple of hours before they originally planned to; but it’s still not early, and the arse-end of August is Dark-with-a-capital-D on the rural roads. Mrs Börns’ headlights aren’t what they once were, yet bright enough for Määnin to tell that the crops on the left of the car are catching the beams, closer than they should be; those to their right fading more into the blackness.
Shit.
They’re on the wrong fucking side of the road!
For one underwear-soiling second, his breath stops, grinding his brain to a halt along with it; but then he has a burst of clarity, reaching across to put a firm hand on the top of the wheel between Freppa’s white knuckles. There’s a hammered heartbeat of resistance before the driver’s blinking furiously, letting Määnin guide them smoothly back to the right. Thank fuck there was no-one else around.
“What the hell just happened?” Tommy’s right at the upper part of his impressive vocal range there.
Määnin ignores him. “Shit, Freppa – are you okay?”
“I…” His words sound shakier than his hands are on the wheel, and that’s saying something. “Sorry, I felt a bit dizzy: my…everything went blurry for a second.”
“Has that happened before?”
“Umm, yeah, a few times. Mostly since the ‘flu.”
Well, at least it wasn’t from tears: the backseat passenger’s being a bit harsh, and Freps has been way more sensitive lately. Tommy asked a couple of weeks ago if it could be the menopause; and Määnin’s not even sure if he was joking.
“Oh my…” Their frontman doesn’t even manage the rest of the sentence through his disbelief. “Stop the car! Now!”
With a reflex stamp on the brake, Freppa takes him at his word; and they’re all going to have bruises from how hard the seatbelts dig into their hips and collarbones, even through a semi-protective layer of denim.
But Tommy’s not done. “Get out, both of you.”
“What?!” They manage that one word in way better unison than their harmonies at the gig.
“You need to take over, Mään: he’s clearly not fit to drive, and…” in a rare moment of self-awareness from Tommy, “…I’m too angry.”
He tries to catch Freppa’s eye, but they’re both closed, his concerningly sweaty forehead now resting against the backs of his hands on the wheel as his chest shudders; so Määnin makes do with a quick, comradely squeeze of a denim-clad shoulder and releases his belt. For probably the first time in his adult life, he’s actually glad he hasn’t had much alcohol, because (and if anyone ever interrogates him about it, he’ll deny it to his last breath) his own hands are already faintly shaky from the adrenaline of the last couple of minutes. He takes the few steps needed to walk around Mrs Börns’ bonnet slowly, to give himself time to regroup: the toughest guy in Vörå should not be all wobbly after something as minor as drifting across the road.
Their disgraced driver takes longer to get out, unfolding his gangly frame from the seat as though he has to think about each muscle contraction individually. As he finally stands, their eyes meet awkwardly. Määnin has always thought that describing someone as looking like a ‘kicked puppy’ was a stupid, klein phrase…until now, because Freppa really fucking does. He shuffles off, leaving Määnin to slide into the space he vacated and mess with the seat: it needs shunting forward considerably further than the less lofty man (he’s not ‘shorter’, thank you – that would imply that Freppa is a ‘normal’ height) is happy about before he can reach the pedals comfortably. The upside is that it gives Tommy more legroom…the down is that Toms uses the extra space to get a better swing to his kicks of frustration. Perhaps all that energy does need an outlet; but Määnin doesn’t see why his kidneys should have to take the brunt of it.
“Do that again and you’re fucking walking home.”
“It’d be quicker than waiting for you two to get your act together.”
It’s not worth the effort to remind Tommy that he was the one to insist that they stop and swap, so Määnin makes do with closing his eyes for a second to gather his patience. The worn rubber of the steering wheel has collected sweat in its tiny pits; enough to make it unpleasant under his hands, and he wipes them on his jeans. Meanwhile Freppa executes the reverse of the seat manoeuvre, hauling in a noisy breath before he dares to speak.
“Could you pass me a Trip, please, Tommy? There should be one on the back seat.”
If he didn’t sit on it.
“Another one, fyrbanna?” It’s more surprise than grumble. Is that an improvement? “You’ve already had, like, four tonight.”
Boney hands scrub at eye sockets. “Please, Tommy: I’m really thirsty.”
“Well, it’s not because you worked so hard tonight, is it; I mean…”
He hasn’t got time for this crap. “Just give him the juice, Toms: he’s probably still dehydrated from being ill or whatever.” They make eye contact in the mirror, and Määnin can tell from the pout he’s getting that he’s millimetres away from Tommy’s boot in his backside again. He glowers right back. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
That sends their singer into a second round of sulking, and he practically throws the bright little box into the front of the car; but it means that they manage to get back to the Sippuses’ house without any more shenanigans. Freppa finishes his carton and manages to fall asleep after a few kilometres, his head lolling loosely against the window in a way that looks like it almost guarantees him a cricked neck when he wakes up. At least he doesn’t drool. A couple of times, Määnin thinks about trying to talk to Tommy, but the frown in the rear-view is one of twenty-four carat stubborn…besides, he needs his concentration for driving. Navigating unlit roads at night with his sunglasses on is possibly not the safest thing he’s ever done, although it wouldn’t even make the list of Top One Hundred Most Reckless. It’s still a shitload better than taking them off, and not being able to see beyond the dashboard. He makes a mental note to keep an old pair of his normal glasses somewhere strategic in future: the ones in his glovebox are no use to him here.
He can’t suppress a huff of relief when they finally pull up outside Freppa’s garage, next to his own car: he’s got one hell of a headache brewing from trying to squint through two layers of dark to get them home safely and deal with the atmosphere inside the car. Mrs Börns’ engine coughs to a stop as he turns the key, but Tommy seems to take that as a cue for him to start.
“Finally!” He doesn’t directly kick Määnin’s seat in his haste to get out, but there’s jostling. “I thought you were never going to get us here, fyrbanna!”
The door slamming, and the shudder it sends through the car again are what wake Freppa. Well, sort of wake him: he’s only about half conscious as he tries to stretch and bangs his elbow on the window. Only once he’s rubbing the pain away does he appear to notice the lack of movement. “Are we home?”
“You are.” Määnin pushes his sunglasses up to rub his eyes: the left one’s begun to twitch from the strain.
“Aren't you two staying here tonight?”
They were supposed to – bags of overnight stuff thrown onto the back seat of his car – but it had been based very much on the assumption that he and Tommy would be plastered…and that two of them wouldn’t have fallen out. He lets the shades drop back onto his nose; turning to look for their missing bandmate, and finding him glaring across the other car’s roof from the passenger side. “I get the impression that Tommy wants to go home.”
“Yeah, I thought he might.” Freppa sound utterly defeated. “I made such a mess of it, didn’t I? I’ve really upset him.”
Määnin claps that thin shoulder again, trying to be reassuring. “You know what he’s like: he’ll get over it.” Although…ordinarily he would have done by now -this stewing isn’t typical of their frontman. He’s normally more like the guns they had to learn to shoot just a few months ago: one loud bang, a bit of recoil, and then he’s good to go again. This is more like…what was the name of the Greek guy with the sword hanging over him? It doesn’t matter, the point is that this time, the weapon needs moving away from the target; but looking at Freppa… “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”
It's a valid question: Marlene’s away for a couple of weeks, visiting her sister down in Nystad. She delayed it once, while her boy was sick; but now he’s had the place to himself since yesterday. It sounds like a dream to Määnin, who’s stuck living with a father that barely notices his son’s existence until it inconveniences him. Which it did this morning - another reason Määnin wasn’t planning on going home tonight. So, having a parent that not only dotes on you, but trusts you? Yeah, he can fantasise about that. There’s a childish part of him that taunts Freppa out of pure jealousy sometimes. Right now, it doesn’t seem like such a brilliant idea to leave the guy alone, but…
“Come on, fyrbanna!”
It’s accompanied by a distinct slap of metal roof: Tommy’s getting (even more) impatient, and Määnin’s going to have to choose between his two friends. Freppa makes his mind up for him…as if there had ever been a question of it.
“Don’t worry about me: I’ll be fine. I just need some sleep.” When Määnin hesitates for a beat, the guitarist risks a glance at their singer, sighing in resignation. “You should go, before he starts kicking your wheel trims or something.”
And so he nods, hands over Mrs Börns’ keys, and slides out of the Volvo to head to his ratty old VW. Freppa is a good friend – far better than they deserve, much of the time – but Tommy is Tommy; and, rightly or wrongly, will always be Määnin’s priority. He tries not to think too hard about why.
The slightly temperamental central locking decides to behave itself for a change, and all four doors unlock with a shlunk. He gives Tommy one exasperated glance over the silver paintwork, and another more concerned one to where their bandmate is making for the house, his resolve almost crumbling as Freppa stumbles slightly; but those long legs steady themselves, reaching the porch steps okay. Määnin needs to take Tommy home.
“Get in.”
And that’s the most either of them says to the other until they’re outside the Talls’ place: the journey a little easier on his eyes after swapping his glasses over…if not on his nerves.
Unusually, Määnin’s the one to break the quiet. Tommy just doesn’t do brooding in silence, so it’s clear something is weirdly wrong.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He turns the engine off: a mute signal that he’s in no hurry: they have as much time as they need. Tommy’s having none of it: doesn’t even look at him as he clicks the belt release.
“Talking about stuff is ga…”
“Don’t use that word. Not like that. Not to shut me down.” Määnin’s had enough. “Look, I get it that tonight was disappointing, and you’re bitter about it; but we…”
“I’m not bitter!”
He doesn’t reply to that, not verbally anyway: just raises one eyebrow and keeps it there, until the muscles in his forehead start to ache. Tommy gets the message. Eventually.
“I’m not.”
“So what was all that about? The toddler tantrum?”
“Fuck off, Määnin. I did not have a tantrum.”
“You could’ve fooled me: it certainly looked like one from where I was sitting.” Felt like one, too, the way Tommy had kicked his seat.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know what, fyrbanna. I can’t…I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“No, actually it’s not okay – not when you…”
He never gets to finish that sentence, because Tommy’s face is right up in his in an instant: the performer’s explosive energy closing the gap in less time than it took Määnin to blink. For a split second the bassist’s blood freezes: however tough he’s supposed to be, however much his prowess is touted on stage, the plain fact is that their frontman is bigger than him. Taller. Broader. Stronger. Maybe not by much; but enough. If push ever came to shove, Tommy could do Määnin some serious damage.
The worst he gets is a glob of spit on his left lens as Tommy yells an infuriated “Fuck off!” about five centimetres from his nose; and then his best friend is gone, scrambling out of the car like it’s on fire, slamming the door. Yet again. This time, the window objects; the glass disconnecting from the mechanism and dropping down inside the panel. It doesn’t matter how many times Määnin tries the switch, it’s not coming back up.
Fuck.