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The snow of February always had a certain blue--lilac tint to it. Pale and freezing, stripped of all natural life. The sun dances on the snow bank, bright white burns into his skull and reflects onto his skin.
He can remember this day from a dream of sorts, a blizzard would take the night sky and by day there would be nothing and no one. The last man on earth, nothing but howling wolves and trees that strike fear into souls.
The deep blue of the morning sky fades as it trails up into the atmosphere, the clouds glow. He feels calm--- peaceful. The sharp air tapping at his pink nose brings him down to earth, he hasn't felt real in days, weeks even.
Everything around him feels like it doesn't exist, but this--- these goosebumps that rise from his flesh as he freezes, the snow soaking through the his jeans and no doubt his underwear too, the gashes on his arms and the bruises on his knees--- all these uncomfortable, painful moments feel real.
Mother nature is truly just as healing as she is destructive.
Pelle had gone missing it seems, not a word uttered and not a creak in the floorboards to indicate he had left. A few calls of his name-- to which was met with silence caused one to wonder, to stalk to his bedroom, heat bubbling in his gut, hoping that he wouldn't find him in a bloodied heap melted to the floor.
Such stupid worry, but Pelle was more unpredictable than a nun at an orgy these days. He must be outside, probably trying to find frozen rats or gone psychotic trying to hunt down a warewolf so he can beg it to change him as well. For someone who hates the essence of life he sure does desire to live eternally.
He's found him on the deck, no jacket or shoes, freezing his ass off no doubt if the shivering hadn't said anything. Typical. He chooses to ignore it, if Pelle had gone out in such a state he most likely wanted to be alone, to "experience nature" he would say. Apparently he needed to get hypothermia to admire the sky properly. There would be no point in bringing him a coat, he wouldn't wear it anyway.
He thinks that maybe if he chucked his shoes at him he would at least wear that. Regret fills him the second he follows through, never been a man for sports and it shows when one of his white high tops wack at the back of his head.
He shouts in surprise, trying to rub the pain away as he whips his head around to try and understand what the hell had happened. He sees his shoes, than Øystein---who looks like he doesn't know weather to laugh his ass off or shit his pants running.
"Fucking hell," Pelle spits, grumbling as he reaches to grab his shoes, no doubt to send them back from where they came. Øystein decides maybe the best option would be to run for his life like a headless chicken.
"Get back here you dick!" He shouts, snorting as Øystein slips on a rug and nearly eats shit. He chucks the shoe at him but he dodges, it leaves a streak of dirt as it hits the wall instead.
"Pelle! I'm sorry, c'mon! It's was an accident you motherfucker!" He squeals as he's chased through the cabin, yelping as he's tackled to the floor, squirming like a fish to try and slip out of his grip as Pelle tries to pin him down.
"Pelle, please!" He pleads with a laugh.
Pelle manages to get a grip on his ankles and drags him down the hallway. "Prepare for your soul to be dragged off to hell and tortured for the rest of the eternity!"
"Nooo!" He tries to get a grip on the floorboards but his shaking of his ribs make it hard.
He grunts as he's dragged out the backdoor, the floor scratched against his stomach but it was better than snow being piled into his shirt, he curses and squirms till Pelle drops him.
He quickly scrambles to his knees to shake the burning snow from his shirt but a snowball is chucked at his face before he can finish. He sputters and shakes is head in bewilderment, turning to glare at his attacker.
"I declare war upon the Swedes!" Øystein shouts, pointing at Pelle, who bucks over laughing, that is until he is also bombarded with snow to the face.
And as promised war breaks out, mayhem endures. With frostbitten ears and fingers pinker than a pig, curses are thrown with balls of ice and laughter breaks out when one of them (mostly Pelle) slips on their ass.
This morning was colder than yesterday's, it bites at his chest, caressed deep into the shadows of his ribs. He groans as he stretches the sleep from his ridged muscles, the tendons crawl out of his foot from where the blanket has fallen off it.
A body lay next to him, softly sleeping and warm, the need to sink into his cavity was a primal one, a need for heat, one not to be mistaken for comfort. His fists coward into his own chest, his back is hot at his belly.
Øystein turns and stretches into him, curling up once his bones are loosened from cartilage. His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks, like he had just swallowed gravel, "mornin'."
He hums in response, it's too early to speak. The sun is perverse in the way it dances it's way through the curtains, his eyes feel raped by the light, he must cup his hand over them with a annoyed groan.
The sky is pale, placid, it allows itself to be manipulated and folded into whatever the wind feels like. It has no mind of its own, merely a blank slate for the elements that surround it; the sea and sun determine its color, the clouds decide whether it's important enough to be seen today--- they can cry with neglect, rage umbenounced to bystanders.
His hand finds his hair, it is slick with grease, his lips rest against his forehead, they don't purse into it. "Hey, I gotta piss, get off," Øystein grumbles.
He doesn't let go, but instead holds tighter, an amused grin teetering his cheeks. Insufferable bastard. It's funny when he starts to get whiney, really, he pushes at his chest and huffs, "let go you dick, this isn't funny."
Pelle snorts and rolls over to lay right on top of him, Øystein yelps and wheezes, his lungs are no doubt being crushed. "Pelle--- fucking hell, get off!" He demands, pushing at his back to try and knock him off.
"Nahh, you're warm," It makes Øystein huff, dropping his arms in plain defeat. "I will piss in your bed, don't fucking make me."
"I'll skin you if you do,"
"Then get off you prick!"
There's a cool tone to the bathroom, almost blue, cold air soothes at his back, kisses at his stomach. He jolts when icy hands lace around his waist, Pelle's fingers were always like damned popsicles.
There's never any telling what his intentions ever are, he's unpredictable, confusing. Though warm and comforting, his forehead against his shoulder, belly hot at his mid-back. He'll lean back into his sternum like sinking into a mattress, one littered with broken springs and uncomfortable hard spots of gangly bones.
The gentle whir of the vent fan is ambient, it distracts him momentarily. He feels compelled to query the other, to fully understand his intentions when he followed him to the bathroom and demanded that it was important for him to be watched over, kinda like a cat would.
It still isn't apparent enough when his hand trails down his happy trail to grab his dick through his breifs, the confusion renders him placid and willing, curious really. His eyebrows curl up when he squeezes and now he must ask, "can't this wait? I have to go man."
He doesn't reply. Merely sticks his hand down his underwear to fondle him proper, Øystein sighs, grabs at his stick thin wrists. "Hey c'mon," It has no clear indication, just desperate bargaining.
Pelle pulls him out over his waistband, loosly wrapping his fingers around his chubby cock, "not stoppin' you."
Øystein gawks, scoffing a laugh, "what?" He sounds offended, like it's such an absurd gesture and not some odd way of showing care, to be so close to his veins, for him to help in something deemed so private. He doesn't want him to hide, he wants to see and understand every molecule of his very being as if it were his own.
"What?" He echos, Pelle doesn't understand the oddities. This isn't something he can seem to fight on. There doesn't seem to be a point.
Pelle's peach fuzz is scratchy at his trapezius, shaking the last bit out of him like he would his own, like he is nothing more than a mere extension of his own body.
Pelle meets him back in the bedroom, finds him with his arm propped behind his head and the sheet doing a foul job at trying to cover his legs. He stares at the ceiling, pondering something perhaps. He only spares him a moments glance before he adverts his gaze.
The mattress is old and torn, not the most comfortable, his body is limp into it. Silence is common during times such as this, to speak is to confirm that these things happen between them, to speak is to think--- and with thought comes complication. A simple question of 'what are we?' can ruin the pavement of such umbenounced instances.
So they remain unspoken, to be nothing and everything is simple, easy to understand. And when ones hand slips in a foreign place there would be no question, they were nothing at all and everything at once.
It's typical to be drunk when he wants him, intoxication covertly drapes over reason, to want nothing but his nose in his neck and his dick rutting inside him, a simple need for heat. And best part, it was easily blamed on the liquor. To want him now is hard, not knowing were to start or when to end, the thin line between sex and intimacy.
He can feel Øystein burning holes into his skin, it's like he senses his thoughts, he's better at speaking his mind than he himself could ever be. "What? You're gonna do all that just to leave me hangin'?"
It's his turn to look at him now, his eyes are quite striking this close now that he thinks about it. An unnatural felted wildflower blue. "Yeah? You wanna, uh...?" He can't bring himself to say it.
Øystein snickers at him, "isn't it obvious? You riled me up you fucker, now deal with it."
He fully turns on his side to mirror him, the color of his aura entangles with his, to mix and to connect from one soul to another. Soul tied. His fingers meet his face before his lips do, they're soft, addictive, it always seems as though once he's got a taste he cant stop, primal subconscious urges take over the conscious part of mind.
He pushes on his shoulder, a guide to leverage so he can climb on top of him, his forearm finds his throat and his hand finds his hair. He is rough, desperate, his lips mash agaisnt him, pure lust driven by fear.
Øystein scratches at his back, his hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms. His back arches into him, Pelle drops his hips so his dick aligns with his, he can feel it's warmth when he grinds into his thigh.
Pelle laughs when he sighs, his voice has always been sweet and airy, he really loves to hear him talk--- Pelle had actually discovered this a bit ago, he poked at for it for weeks. It was hellish. He could be scrounging the kitchen, trying to find something to eat and Pelle would come up right behind him and mutter something right in his ear, purposely saying something that he know would make him squirm just to leave him hanging right after, he could tell he found it wildly amusing.
And when he leans right down to his ear, "I wanna fuck you till you cry," he god damn near comes right then and there. The dickwad.
He manages to sputter out a fuck you and shut up despite himself, though the shake in his voice makes it rather difficult. It just earns a snort, he kicks his thigh for it.
The room is tinted green, a new shade to the morning. Øystein's ankle is thin is his grip, he lifts his foot up to his face to kiss the sole, he flinches. "You're fuckin' weird," he says laughing.
"You're weirder. You don't think I haven't seen your porn collection you perv?"
"Hey what, those are top secret files, you can't go snoopin' around like that!"
"It isn't snooping if you leave them out. Should hide that shit better if you don't want me to look through them."
His thighs are soft in his hands, squishy and pliable, like dough. He's noticed that his hands are quite nice, he studies them within his own, they're big, almost the same size as his, his tendons seem to crawl out of his skin.
He likes to imagine that they're around his throat, suffocating him to death. He thinks about that frequently actually. Sometimes he wishes that Øystein would do it, that he would actually kill him, some sick part of him thinks that maybe it'd feel nice.
Øystein's impatience wears off on him, he can feel it in the way his fingers clamp in his hair, his breath shudders off his tounge, he seems desperate, "come on, please."
The tone of his voice twists the corner of his mouth, he's kinda cute when he's whiney. His breifs are a smooth black, they're quite the contrast agaisnt his. He can see the way his dick is squished when he grinds his own agaisnt it, and how his face scrunches and his jaw clenches.
Attraction is such an odd chemical reaction to understand, he isn't sure what it is about him, or what Øystein even sees in him, he's never liked the way he looked all that much. It's deeper than simple lust over his anatomy, something that he can't quite be sure of. It's utterly confusing.
He fumbles with the band of his breifs, trying to snake his hand in them, his nose flattens into the others when he attempts to kiss him. Øystein is surprisingly strong for his size, or maybe he's just weak, he's always been skinnier than him, he grabs at his hair and won't let him off. A Roman statue is formed within him, pure marble when gravity seems to hold his spine a little tighter. His ribs feel crushed under his chest as Pelle fully grabs his dick, clawing at his back and sighing in his ear.
The hand of the lord comforts him with glass eyes, wind rattling at the window. Pelle had come to him last night, he wanted to sleep with him, he seemed paranoid, so he had let him. He always liked being close to people and Pelle provided a keen sense of comfort, he felt like a child's teddybear being held to sleep, he assumed Pelle had needed it. He told him once that he always had a hard time falling asleep if he wasn't holding something, Øystein had teased him for this, said it was 'cute', Pelle just glared at him.
He feels too open when Pelle moves a leg to his chest, he shifts his eyes in hopes that it would shave off the itching feeling to close them as Pelle smears some random lube on his ass; he wasn't actually sure what it was, they typically just used whatever they could find. Pelle had always eyed him wearily when he said he didn't want to be prepped but he liked it better this way, he liked the hurt that came with the strech. Pelle of all people should know how that can be, almost healing.
He almost regrets skipping the prep when he slides the head in, his face curled into a snarl and brought his hand to his mouth to keep himself quiet, this fucking burned. Pelle doesn't speak on his discomfort when he notices it, he knows very well that he'll just grit his teeth and tell him to shut up and keep going.
Øystein sobs into his palm once he's fully sheathed himself, digging his fingers into his stick thin arm to plea for him to wait, Pelle's grip on his hips tighten with each second that passes by. It was pretty obvious this took a toll on him to wait, especially when he grunts as he clenches around him. His ribs unlock when he's finally given the go to actually fuck him.
He's soft inside, tight and warm, his stomach boils up to his throat as he pulls out slowly and roughly draws back in with haste. Øystein covertly hides behind his arms, he can't look the other in the eye when they're pulled off him. Pelle's quite pretty from this angle he's realized, the core of the earth pulls at his cheeks to youthen his tired sunken bones, his hair burns into him like the sun of the sky.
Pelle can't decide where to look, the expression that's carved into Øystein's face very well makes him want to cry just as much as the veiw of his dick sliding in and out of him. Øystein sobs when he leans down over him and groans right into his ear, his voice deep and gravelly, and fucking shit, he might just have to thank Odin later for blessing his ears.
The new angle pressed his knee to his chest so Pelle was able to get deeper, to fuck him harder. His hands shake as he tries to claw at the skin of the other, shreds get caught under his nails. The springs of his mattress are old, they cry as Øystein is deliberately sunken into them. With the way he chokes on his on words sounds like he's drowning, he can only whimper clearly. Pelle tells him that he sounds like a bitch like this, the strain that it took for him to say it would've been laugh worthy given other circumstances.
"Øystein--- ride me, I want you ride me, please," his tounge has been dipped in desperation, he's actually begging him. Øystein's jaw is slack as he nods dumbly, wincing as Pelle hastily pulls out of him.
He's eager to get his dick back in him, he feels empty without it. Pelle's ribs are sharp, bumpy when he holds onto his chest as he tries to get his dick back inside him, it slips up his back before he grabs onto it and sits down onto him. Pelle's hands are tight at his hips, he brings one up to press against his mouth, he looks about ready to cry when he shifts his eyes from where they're connected up the others slim frame.
His anatomy is jarring from this angle, with the way the light from the window kisses his skin makes him look like he crawled out of a painting. He feels small like this, he likes when Øystein takes the lead like this sometimes. It's more so something that pesters his thoughts than it actually manifests into real life though.
Øystein grabs at his hand that shyly hides under jaw to bring it to his dick, his movements are jerky as he forces his hand around him for him. He leans back on Pelle's thighs for better leverage, trying to fuck up into his fist and down on his cock at once, it's a sight that'll burn into his retinas for the rest of eternity to come. His hips will twitch up into him when he runs his thumb into his slit and he'll sigh as he sinks back down to the hilt to grind against him.
Pelle grits his teeth as he tightens around him, his free hand claws at the others thigh, he exchanges the marks Øystein had left on him earlier. He can't choke back his cry as he comes inside him, he was going to warn him, really. Øystein just gives him a sly grin, "that was fast, you like me that much huh?"
He's embarrassed, but too out of his head to care, nearly whining when Øystein doesn't pull off. He attempts to grab at his hips with a pleading expression but Øystein pins his hands to his chest and continues to fuck himself on him, laughing at him when he sobs--- it was too much, he was already too sensitive in general but this, this was almost torture.
He wants to hide his face in embarrassment but Øystein won't let go of his hands, he resorts to turning his nose up into the pillow, the act of showing him his neck could've been taken as submission, Øystein beams above him, he's probably having the time of his life belittling him. Revenge for how he treats him probably, he should've seen it coming.
"Sh--it, Øystein please, I, ugh--- please," It's aimless bargaining, he himself is even entirely sure what he's pleading for, but his dick burns with the friction, and his throat is coated with somthing thick, his cries come out choked. He whimpers everytime their hips connect, sobbing when he rolls his hips on him, Øystein is overjoyed that he's fallen apart below him, his thighs are sore with the strain but he's desperate for his own release.
Pelle's jaw goes slack, it's too much, his body doesn't know how to handle it, his nerves are on fire. Øystein brings his hand back to his cock again, this time he has to hold Pelle's hand to actually get him to stroke him, his hands are big, they engulf his dick almost entirely. Maybe he was just small, that would suck.
His back hunches over and he sobs as he comes, he leaks over their fingers and some hits Pelle's chest, he's so pale it almost blends in. He pants as he slides off him, Pelle's dick twitches and leaks precome, his cheeks are a deep red color. "You want me to---?" It's open ended but Pelle nods breathlessly.
He's desperate when Øystein lays next to him, he wraps his arm around his neck, nosing into his cheek as he strokes him. Pelle is sweet like this, he quite enjoys having this much control of him. He's hard in his palm, the mix of lube and precome makes a weird noise, but Pelle seems pathetic from it. He's never seen him so needy.
Pelle's knee twitches up when he slides his thumb in the slit of his head, he turns his head to him so he can snake his tounge between his lips, it's a quick cover-up to push down a groan. His stomach burns down to his feet as he fucks up into his fist.
He only realizes now that Øystein's cum is still on his fingers, it's a gross feeling, he doesn't think before he licks it off, he kind of regrets it, Øystein's diet is shit, it does not taste good. It seems to do something to Øystein though, he would've laughed at him if he could focus on anything but the knot tightening in his stomach.
The sun hides behind the clouds--- it's funny, people always say that to him in one form or another. Things will get better you'll see, there's something waiting around the corner for everyone, things are just behind the clouds it'll clear up eventually, just you wait. Well what if he was tired of waiting. What if he couldn't see that something was actually there for him. It's never felt like that. Two birds hide in the trees, he spots them with ease. He pinpoints them as common sterlings, he's fimmilar with those, he's fiddled with the corpse of one before.
He has found himself on a shipping container, it's big and a rusty brick red color. With the light drizzle of april comes may--- beautiful and bright, the colors could cure anyone. He's realized he can never be like everyone else though, he realized this a long time ago; no matter how hard he'll try he can never be quite normal. It's all hes ever wanted, was to fit in, to be just like everyone else--- to not be outcasted. For some reason he just can't be that, no matter how hard he can try.
Thorns caught in his hair and one in his shoe on the walk to it, when he takes his shoes off later itll prick his pinky, and it'll feel comforting instead of hurtful. All these little reminders that he's just as alive as another, after a while it'll be irritating though, the sting will linger. He skips a rib of the container with each stride he takes, the top is littered with fallen branches and catkins. It's wet, he sort of hopes he will slip off and crack his skull open. To make his death seem like an accident would be easier, for everyone.
He's spotted two small stone lion statues in this junkyard, his childhood mocks him in their eyes--- his grandmother had ones similar to those ones right outside her front door. It's odd to see them in a different place, but they feel comforting.
There's no way of telling when to start and when to stop or how to for that matter. He isnt even sure if he's currently alive and breathing, nothing makes sense, nothing feels real. It's a deep seated feeling that he cant shake, his soul has been sucked from his body and now hes just a empty sack. He feels deeper than just sick, he already feels dead.
He thought being around people would help, that observing them live amongst one another would help, but he can only feel ostracized. There's no way of telling if any of this is real, that any of these people are real. It's a hard feeling to shake. Øystein can help, but he's not sick enough to go crawling to him for help, even now he'll never let himself stoop so low. It's a horrible feeling to be looked down at in pity. He would rather die.
Pelle's chest heaves with each shaky intake, he's trying to show himself that he can breathe--- that his lungs are still intact in his body. It seems like he's misplaced his organs somehow, he isn't sure where they could've gone.
The powder has melted into the dirt, it clears way for new plant life to grow. The veiw from balcony has always been quite stunning, a flat green valley with nothing for miles. The old wood of the bench worries him when he sits on it, he isn't sure if it will properly hold his weight.
"Hey," Øystein starts when he comes into veiw, "you want a beer?" He holds one out for him to grab. Pelle studies the label before he takes a swig, his lip curls up as he tries to squint away the falling sun.
"Sky looks pretty," It's a smooth cotton candy pink. Pelle turns to him as he sits beside him, it's obvious that he's not sure of what to say, especially if he's pointing out the state of the damn sky. He shrugs in response.
After a lengthy bit of just the wind and trees chatting amongst one another, he himself must, "are we uh, will we ever talk about it?" He throws his hand out in some vague gesture between them.
Pelle sinks into the red wood of the cabin, fiddling with his bottle, "I don't know. I don't know what there is to say about it."
The sun is fully laid to rest.
"Guess so,"
He isn't sure how to feel.