Work Text:
one
Like most Friday nights, Surtalogi is drinking with a bunch of losers in the student council room. And like most Friday nights, he wishes Dainsleif was here instead of at his dumb book club. Or music club. Or is it an emo losers club? AA meeting? He has no fucking idea, he never listents to his yapping, but his point is, his best friend is leaving him alone with the vultures.
“You’re like, the least romantic person on Earth, Surt,” Rhinedottir snorts.
Surtalogi raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t following the thread of the conversation because they were all talking about their goddamn boyfriends and girlfriends, which is the most boring topic they’ve ever discussed - and that’s saying something, considering the company he keeps.
“The fuck did you just say?”
“Hate to agree with Rhine,” Hroptatyr says. “You’re gonna die alone, Surt.”
“What the fuck?”
They’re holding his trial now. Typical Friday night. To his own dismay, he turns to Vedrfolnir.
“I’m not going to comment on that. Conflict of interest.”
Surtalogi glares at him.
“Fuck all of you. I can be romantic.”
“How?” Rhinedottir asks. “Are you going to destroy university property and loudly declare: this one’s for you babe?”
Surtalogi shrugs.
“Yeah?” and they all snicker.
Fuck his friends, and fuck romance. He will prove them wrong.
Surtalogi swings by the grocery store on his way home. He’s got this. He’s going to nail this.
By the time Dainsleif makes it home after his class, he’s almost done with dinner and it smells pretty fucking delicious if he does say so himself.
“Hey,” he says, squeezing Surtalogi’s shoulder when he passes by him in the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” Surtalogi says.
Dainsleif blinks at him, then at the pan.
“Why?”
“Fuck do you mean why?”
“You never cook.”
“That’s not true.”
Dainsleif squints at him.
“Buying frozen stuff and tossing it in the microwave is not cooking.”
“Keep talking and I’m not going to share any of it with you.”
Surtalogi hopes he will indeed shut up because he’s going to look dumb as fuck if he cooked for nothing. Thankfully, Dainsleif just chuckles. A delicious sound. But not as delicious as Surtalogi’s dinner.
“This is… really good, Surt,” his ungrateful roommate says after taking a few bites.
“Why do you sound surprised?” Surtalogi grumbles. “I can cook.”
“Then why do you never cook?”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“So why the sudden urge to make a real dish?” Dainsleif asks, and he is way too curious for his own good.
“Shut the fuck up and eat,” Surtalogi says. “None of your business.”
“Okay,” Dainsleif sighs. “Thanks, still. Your table manners could improve, but this? It’s delicious, and I’m going to force you to make it again.”
“Fine,” Surtalogi groans, and they leave it at that.
two
Dainsleif, very rudely, does not go around telling everyone about how Surtalogi was so romantic and made him dinner. So he has to find something else to clear his name.
He buys a nice flower bouquet and picks Dainsleif up at his book club. Or, more precisely, he gets the time and place wrong three times before he finds the correct classroom where the losers are all gathered. It doesn’t look like they’re done, but Surtalogi is very done at this point.
He knocks on the door. A redhead opens it and says:
“Yes?”
“I’m here to pick Dainsleif up.”
“Um. We aren’t finished here.”
“Whatever,” Surtalogi says. “Pardon me.”
He pushes past him and walks to where Dainsleif is sitting with a dozen other students in a circle. He frowns when he sees him coming, which is rude as hell.
“Surt?”
“For you,” Surtalogi says, shoving the flowers in his face. “Let’s go.”
Dainsleif blinks at him. Then at the flowers. He looks like he wants to ask questions, but decides that it’s not the time or place.
“Thanks,” he says. “Sorry guys, I’ll see you next week. Bye.”
Surtalogi pointedly ignores the stunned looks from the others.
When they’re back in the hallway, Dainsleif stops and stares at him.
“What are these for?”
“Are you deaf? They’re for you.”
“I heard you. But why? It’s not my birthday.”
“So what?”
Dainsleif keeps needling him during the whole time they’re walking to Surtalogi’s car, and on the ride home.
“Okay, what did you break? Tell me, I won’t be mad.”
“I didn’t break anything,” Surtalogi grunts, staring at a red light that refuses to turn green.
“I’m going to find out eventually,” Dainsleif insists. “Spill. Did you break the oven? The fridge door? The TV? The garbage bin?”
“How the fuck would I break the garbage bin?”
“I don’t know. You stare at it like you’re gonna murder it sometimes.”
“That’s because it doesn’t close half the time. What’s the point of it being automatic if I have to do it myself? That’s bullshit.”
“Oh my god, you broke it, didn’t you?”
Surtalogi’s sure steam is going out of his nose at this point. He pulls to the side of the road and parks the car.
“What are you doing?”
“Dain. I’m only going to say this once. I did not break anything.”
“But –”
“I got these flowers for you for no fucking reason. Other than. I thought you would like them. Now if you hate them fucking toss them out of the window and be done with it.”
Dainsleif stares at him. His eyes are stupidly blue and it’s freaking Surtalogi out more than usual.
“Thank you, Surt,” he says eventually.
“You’re fucking welcome,” he groans, before he restarts the car.
When they get home, Dainsleif finds a vase Surtalogi had no idea they even owned and fills it with water so he can put the flowers in it. Then, he walks over to where Surtalogi is cooking his stupid dish, and kisses him on the cheek.
three
Since the flowers weren’t enough either, Surtalogi decides to up his game. He spends hours reading a pile of women’s magazines and by the time he’s done, he’s become an expert on the theory. Time for some practice.
The following morning, Surtalogi drives them to the university as usual, and he holds the passenger door open for Dainsleif.
Dainsleif, this idiot, looks as puzzled as he did when he cooked or brought him flowers. It’s starting to piss him off. Did he really think he was unromantic, like the others?
“Are you getting out or not?” he grunts.
“Yes, thank you,” Dainsleif says, distractedly.
He doesn’t say anything as they walk to class and Surtalogi thinks: I’ve got to do better. Eventually he’ll stop being surprised and he will have to admit that I’m the most romantic motherfucker he knows.
He buys Dainsleif his favorite (shitty) coffee from the vending machine without him even asking, and charges his laptop for him when he notices the battery running low during the morning’s last period.
“You’re freaking me out, Surt,” Dainsleif says when Surtalogi insists on carrying his tray at the cafeteria.
“I don’t give a shit,” Surtalogi says. “Sit down.”
He’s not spending this much time at the gym for nothing. His arms should have some use.
“Since when are you this chivalrous, Surt?” Rerir asks when he sits down next to them, having apparently witnessed all of it.
Oh great, now the so-called authority on romance is gracing them with his commentary.
“He could give you a run for your money lately,” Dainsleif says, before taking a bite of his omelette.
Extremely pleased, Surtalogi picks up a juice box from Dainsleif’s tray. He unwraps the straw from its plastic packaging and stabs it through the opening, before handing it to him. Dainsleif opens his mouth and Surtalogi takes the cue, holding it out closer so that he can directly drink from it.
Rerir stares at them with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment. They’ve managed to weird out Mr. Prince Charming himself. This is a most delightful turn of events.
four
One afternoon, Surtalogi overhears Rhinedottir saying she’s taking Alice out to a nice restaurant. It occurs to him that he should also take Dainsleif out on a date. The thing is, he has no idea where to take him. He never goes to restaurants, because waiters freak him out with their little outfits and notepads. He only likes this one kebab place where he has to yell his order directly to the cook. And even he knows it’s not romantic to take someone to dinner in a place where the Google reviews are all 1 stars (except Surtalogi’s) mainly because the cook is wanted in three countries and he likes to brag about it when customers point out that he messed up their order.
“You should take him to Café Lutèce,” the ladies from his Wednesday night yoga class suggest, but Surtalogi’s trying to do something nice for Dainsleif, not go bankrupt.
“Lambad’s tavern is pretty nice,” Alhaitham suggests, but everyone in the university hates him so Surtalogi takes his advice with a grain of salt, just in case.
“Why not Good Hunter?” Thoma suggests when Surtalogi asks him at the campus’ coffee shop.
Surtalogi trusts Thoma. Everyone and their mother is in love with him. Surely he knows his stuff.
“We’re going out tomorrow night,” Surtalogi tells Dainsleif, standing in the doorway of his room, menacingly.
“Are we?” Dainsleif asks, looking up from his book.
“Yes. Wear something nice.”
“You wear something nice,” Dainsleif snorts, but he doesn’t say no.
Surtalogi does wear something nice. A black button-down that makes him feel like he’s suffocating, but the shopkeeper said he looked nice. He realizes she sells things to people for a living, but she was wearing glasses and drinking tea from a tiny cup, making her look wise, so he put his life in her hands.
He picks Dainsleif up at his club (at the right time) and he’s wearing a dark turtleneck that does wonders for his silhouette.
“I didn’t even know you owned a shirt,” Dainsleif says by way of greeting, but Surtalogi can see him checking him out.
“I’m full of surprises,” Surtalogi says.
“I can see that. Where are we going?”
“Good Hunter.”
Surtalogi wonders if he should have kept it a secret until they arrived. Well, too late.
“Really? I’ve heard good things about it.”
Surtalogi hopes he hasn’t heard good things from Thoma. He doesn’t want this bitch to steal his man.
Dainsleif doesn’t mention Thoma at all during dinner. In fact, dinner goes very well. Through sheer effort, Surtalogi does not glare at the waitress and the food is delicious. And Dainsleif doesn’t make idiot eyes at him when he pays wordlessly at the end of the evening. This is what Surtalogi would call a complete success.
Surtalogi’s already thinking about his next (romantic) move when they get back to their apartment, which is why he doesn’t see it coming when Dainsleif crowds him against the door and kisses him.
It’s a great kiss, by all standards, one that leaves Surtalogi speechless. It’s not often that Dainsleif can catch him off-guard, but when he does? He has the power to drive him absolutely crazy.
He shouldn’t be this affected, it’s not like this is the first time they’re kissing, far from it. Maybe it’s the context. They just got back from a date. And now Dainsleif is kissing him.
This is romantic, Surtalogi thinks, tangling his fingers in Dainsleif’s hair. I should have thought of it first.
five
Romance, as Surtalogi finds out, is also conveyed through words. But here’s the thing: that’s not his forte. He can hold doors and buy flowers and take Dainsleif to dinner but talking about his feelings? He would rather die. He could be tortured for hours and no one could get a confession out of him.
Which makes it all the more ridiculous that all it takes for him to talk is Dainsleif batting his eyelashes at him.
They’re on the couch on a Sunday night watching a show they know by heart at this point, and Dainsleif is laying on him, his head cushioned on Surtalogi’s chest. He’s warm.
“Surt,” he says.
“Hm?”
Surt is preoccupied with something. He’s tracing the lines on the inside of Dainsleif’s palm. It’s fascinating.
“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on with you lately?”
“Nothing,” Surtalogi says, probably too fast.
“Come on,” Dainsleif murmurs, looking up at him. “You can tell me.”
“I’m telling you, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I can tell you’ve been…thinking.”
“So?”
“That’s never a good sign.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“No, seriously. I’m not saying I don’t like everything you’ve been doing for me lately. But I keep wondering if there’s a reason why you feel like you have to do them. Like. Are you scared that I’m going to leave, or something?”
Surtalogi swallows. It’s not that. But at the same time, if he’s being honest, maybe that’s a tiny part of it. Maybe, when he heard his friends talk about how he was going to die alone, he started to worry about someone more romantic than him asking Dainsleif out, effectively killing all his chances.
Oh, to hell with it.
“Dain,” he says, gravely. “I love you.”
Dainsleif blinks at him.
“I should hope so. We’ve been dating for like, six months.”
Surtalogi frowns.
“Fuck no, we haven’t?”
“Surt. You have to be kidding me. What do you think we’ve been doing?”
“Being…friends?”
Dainsleif gapes at him.
“Best friends?” Surtalogi tries.
“Surt. Do you kiss your other friends?” he says, like it’s going to be a big problem if he does.
“You’re my only friend,” Surtalogi reassures him.
Dainsleif shakes his head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“How was I supposed to know? When did we start dating, according to you?”
“The first time we fucking kissed?”
“Hm.”
He can see how that would make sense.
“But there’s something else you’re not telling me. Why would you start doing this now?”
“Fine,” Surtalogi sighs. “Rhinedottir and the others said I was going to die alone because I was the most unromantic person on Earth. So I thought. Maybe you’d want to date me if I was more romantic.”
Dainsleif pinches the bridge of his nose.
“So let me get this straight. You’ve been doing all of this because you wanted me to think you’d make a good boyfriend.”
“Well yeah.”
“You didn’t need to do that. Tragically you’ve managed to make me love you way before all this.”
“Oh. You never said.”
“I’m saying it now. You’re the rudest person I know, you’re awful at talking about your feelings and you obviously can’t tell when someone likes you. But you’re always there when I need you, you’ve always backed me up no matter what trouble I got in, and I don’t care what my brother, or our stupid friends think about your lack of romanticism. I can’t believe I’m saying this but it’s always been me and you against the world and I intend for it to stay that way. Got it?”
Surtalogi’s a hundred percent sure he’s blushing right now. Goddamn it.
“Got it.”
“But you also have to keep doing all the things you were doing. I got used to this princess treatment, and it’s your fault.”
“Fair enough.”
plus one
In the following weeks, Rhinedottir and Hroptatyr will bitterly regret what they started. They forgot a crucial piece of information: Dainsleif and Surtalogi can make anything a competition. They fill each other’s lockers with flowers. Surtalogi interrupts a lecture to loudly declare his love for Dainsleif in a poem that is, according to Rerir, the worst piece of writing he has heard in his life. Dainsleif uses the back of one of Vedrfoldnir research paper to make a very badly drawn portrait of his beloved. Surtalogi erases the entirety of Rhinedottir’s blackboard to write in giant letters: Dainsleif, love of my life, with no less than five typos.
In conclusion, romance is alive and well, or dead and buried, depending on how you look at it.