Chapter Text
The wind cut through the trees, sharp and cold, whispering through the silence of the woods. Björn sat on a bench, if it could even be called that, a crude assembly of old logs bound by a rope long since frayed and grayed by the years. It had weathered countless winters, much like the man himself, a Swede shaped by solitude and the wild breath of nature since boyhood.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that drew both awe and unease. Intimidating felt too small a word for him. His eyes, a glacial blue that seemed to pierce through flesh and thought alike, carried the stillness of deep water and the threat of what sleeps beneath it. Muscles hardened by labor, a rough goatee shadowing his jaw, and long, heavy brown hair that caught the dim light like strands of old gold.
This was Björn Sjöberg, a man forged from silence and survival, who carried himself as though the world still owed him its fear. A man with everything to conquer, and nothing left to lose, or so he liked to believe.
In truth, he was only seventeen, a boy molded by too much too soon. He had seen more than most men twice his age, spoken of everything that burned within him, yet the world rarely listened. Silence had become his shadow, familiar and unyielding. So he shouted, not for help, but for power, for the thrill of watching fear flicker in the eyes of others.
It was a cruel sort of satisfaction, a fleeting taste of control in a world that never gave him any. At that moment, he was strong. At that moment, he was somebody.
-
He waited, and waited, and waited. Time dragged like frozen tar, each second stretching into the next until it felt as though he had been there for hours, sinking into that miserable excuse of a bench. The cold bit at him, gnawed through his clothes with the persistence of a starving wolf. He was not dressed for the wind’s cruelty, but that never stopped him.
A thin Carpathian Forest shirt clung to him, its faded “Fuck you all” scrawled like a promise across his back. Over it hung a battle vest, more ambition than armor, with only a few patches half sewn into place. His camouflage pants fit sharp against his frame, a bullet belt slung low around his hips, the metal catching the faintest glint of dying daylight. Ladder laced combat boots climbed to just below his knees, scarred from years of wear, standing defiant against the mud and frost.
He sat there, breathing smoke into the cold, waiting for something, or someone, to break the silence.
In his head, he tried not to linger on the fact that Haakon had stood him up again. The thought crawled beneath his skin, bitter and familiar. That little bastard always toyed with him, like he was some worn-out plaything, a ragged teddy bear to be tossed aside when the amusement faded.
"Det där jävla idiotet..." *
Björn muttered inwardly, his jaw tightening as he pulled the cigarette from his pocket. He’d been rolling it between his fingers for what felt like ages, the paper soft and crinkled from his touch. The flame caught a small defiance against the cold, and he drew in the smoke slowly, letting it burn away the taste of disappointment.
-
Haakon was on his way to the cabin. Truth be told, he was always late to everything. It never seemed to bother him, the way time slipped through his fingers like sand. He brushed it off with that same careless shrug, as if punctuality belonged to a world he refused to live in. Whatever the reason, he never explained, and it never really mattered. He wasn’t one for explanations.
Tall black boots struck the ground with a lazy rhythm, his fitted jeans moving like shadows with each step. The Mayhem shirt he wore had seen better days, its print cracked and faded, but it suited him perfectly. His wavy black hair fell just past his shoulders, dyed darker than midnight, framing a face that looked like it was always caught between apathy and mischief.
You can probably see where this is going.
Björn’s patience wore thin with every passing second. When the silence finally became unbearable, he pushed himself up from the log with a low, frustrated grunt, muttering something sharp and unflattering about Haakon under his breath.
“Angry at me? Why didn’t you just wait inside?”
The voice came just as Björn turned toward the cabin, sharp enough to cut through his irritation. Haakon stood there, a crooked grin playing on his lips, his tone teasing but laced with that familiar mockery. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug as a quiet laugh escaped him.
Björn rolled his eyes, trying to match the gesture with a hint of playfulness, though the effort felt forced. The last thing he wanted was another argument. They fought often enough, both too stubborn to back down, both too proud to admit how much the other’s words could sting.
Once they stepped inside the cabin, warmth did not greet them, only the familiar clutter of their shared chaos. It took a moment before realization struck, they had forgotten someone. Again.
Of course they had. And, of course, that idiot had not thought to invite himself. Couldn’t he just take a hint? Björn’s irritation simmered, that familiar pulse of annoyance rising in his chest. How hard was it to read a room? To just show up without needing to be asked?
But that was a problem for another day. For now, there was music to drown in, people to mock, and arguments waiting to spark. The night was young, and they were both far too good at wasting it.
Haakon flopped onto the couch, boots still on, leather creaking faintly with the shift of his weight. He didn’t bother taking them off, and Björn didn’t even twitch. He always let Haakon’s little annoyances slide, letting them hang in the air until they became part of the room, part of the rhythm they moved in together. Haakon yawned, stretching lazily, eyes drifting over the cabin. Shadows clung to the corners, the weak light from outside barely brushing the walls, and he didn’t know if he wanted to pick a fight or just sit back and watch the tension coil.
Getting under Björn’s skin was never hard. Haakon knew every twitch, every flare of temper, every small tell, and he used them like tools without a thought. A smirk tugged at his lips, small and deliberate, knowing exactly what it would do.
Björn knew it too. He could see the mockery coming, the little prods that had no purpose except to amuse Haakon. And he let it happen, again and again, because this was their game, a silent ritual neither of them could stop. The cabin felt smaller somehow, the walls pressing in, the quiet stretching long and sharp, and the air hung heavy, tasting like anticipation.
Haakon leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face as he decided to push a little. He brought up the one guy he knew would get under Björn’s skin: Dave. Dave, with his long blonde waves that curled just right, a personality that demanded attention, and a reckless love for speed thrash metal. The type of guy who could charm anyone and irritate Björn at the same time, a perfect mix of talent and arrogance. Haakon had spent a few days during the summer hanging out at Dave’s place, jamming on guitars, laughing at each other’s mistakes, and trading riffs like nothing else existed.
“So, what’s up with you and Dave? You barely even know the guy and you give him death stares. Yeah, what’s up with that?” Haakon asked, his tone light, almost teasing, knowing exactly the effect it would have. He could see it already, the way Björn’s jaw would tighten, the slow burn behind those piercing blue eyes. Maybe it was anger, maybe it was jealousy. Either way, it was exactly what Haakon had been aiming for.
Björn didn’t respond at first. He stayed quiet, rigid, assuming Haakon would eventually drop it, move on to something else, or for once, just shut up. But Haakon didn’t. God, that guy never stopped talking. The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the quiet of the cabin like a knife.
Björn crossed his arms over his chest, a wall against the provocation, his muscles tense, and ready. The name alone set his teeth on edge, a pulse of heat crawling beneath his skin, crawling up his neck and settling behind his eyes. Did he seriously have to bring him up? Was there no mercy, no pause, no shred of tact in that idiot? Every second Haakon lingered, smirking, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the anger thrum like a living thing, feeding on itself, twisting in Björn’s chest until it became almost unbearable, almost dangerous.
“What? What’s wrong? It’s not like I told you to go fuck yourself or anything. I was just curious. You guys only met once, and you already decided you don’t like someone? Just based on a first impression? That’s stupid.”
Haakon tossed Björn’s irritation aside like it was nothing, a shrug that made the anger coil tighter in Björn’s chest. He never really considered other people’s feelings, not seriously, not in the way Björn did.
“First impressions are everything, jävla,”*
Björn snapped, voice low and dangerous. And he was right. Haakon had made countless assumptions about people, drawn lines in the sand before even knowing them, and refused to step back, to reconsider. Why couldn’t Björn do the same? Why did he have to feel so damn much, to care so deeply, when Haakon moved through the world like a storm, leaving chaos in his wake without a second thought? The thought gnawed at him, sharpening the edges of his anger until it almost tasted sweet.
FLASH BACK !
Dave sat on a bench at the park, July 14th, 2003, craving ice cream, vanilla if he could get it. The line, predictably, stretched on forever. Kids whining, parents complaining, angry old people shouting to move faster. He didn’t have the patience for it. Ugh. All that just for a single scoop.
Still, he dragged himself up and got in line like a civilized human being, waiting while tapping his foot, glancing around. Soon enough, a couple of people slid in behind him. Haakon and Björn. Haakon, ever bold, bypassed a few people to tap Dave on the shoulder. He wanted to compliment Dave’s Exodus shirt. Truly a kickass shirt. Bonded by Blood? That shit rocked.
“Hey dude, that shirt is straight up awesome. Where’d you get it? I checked five stores in Sammamish and found nothing,” Haakon said, grin wide, easy. Dave responded with a small smile, a little pride in his tone. He had gotten it on tour earlier that summer.
“Sorry, man, out of luck. Got it on the last tour. Not sure you’ll find one anywhere, but hey, stick around, I can let you borrow it.” Dave smirked, prideful about attending the last Megadeth tour after the band almost disbanded in 2002.
Björn had seen the guy from the start. The aura, the clothing, the attitude, he could already tell what he was dealing with. Another guy flexing his personality, testing the waters of someone else’s masculinity. He crossed his arms, waiting in line, trying to block it all out.
Until Dave looked at him.
“Dude, Burzum? Shit about Varg’s still being talked about. Great music though. Filosofem is legendary,” Dave said, thumbs up, genuine and unfiltered.
Björn’s stomach turned. Jealousy clawed at him like a living thing. That guy had gone on tour? After Megadeth nearly fell apart? Fucking lucky bastard. And the long blonde hair? Seriously? Anything else?
Before Björn could spiral any further, Dave pulled a guitar pick from his pocket, one signed by Mustaine himself last year.
“Dude, I got his autograph on this pick. Isn’t it amazing? I even polished it so it won’t fade. I breathe and live for this man. We even share a name!” Dave said, handing it to Haakon to examine.
Björn rolled his eyes, nodding once, flat and forced. Acting disinterested. Fuck this shit. He deserved that more than anyone.
Dave and Haakon exchanged numbers. Björn, of course, brushed it off. “Uh, my phone’s dead… been like this for days,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, the lie sticking poorly, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t giving that guy an inch.
Dave didn’t press it. He figured maybe Björn was just a little more antisocial, kept to himself, the type who didn’t hand out numbers or small talk easily. Fine, whatever. Maybe he’d get to know him later, if it ever came to that. For now, though, he didn’t care. He shot Björn a quick, measuring look, sharp enough to sting a little, then turned and walked off, the half-melted ice cream clutched loosely in his hand, drips falling unnoticed onto the pavement.
Björn watched him go, chest tight, a mix of relief and something else he didn’t want to name twisting inside him, the taste of jealousy bitter on his tongue.
END OF FLASHBACK
Björn rolled his eyes at Haakon, irritation simmering in his chest.
“Seriously, you’re asking me why? That guy thinks he’s somebody, acts like he’s already better than me when he doesn’t even know me. Why would I want to waste my time on this dick? That’s straight up stupid if you ask me, yeah? He really thinks he’s a somebody.” Björn slammed his hand onto the IKEA coffee table, the sound sharp, angry, final.
“Dude, everybody is somebody,” Haakon replied, stretching lazily, oblivious to the weight behind Björn’s words.
Those words sank deep. Like a knife sliding into a wound. If Haakon was right, if everyone was somebody, then why did Björn always feel like nothing? Why did he feel small, invisible, a ghost moving through the edges of the world? Maybe Haakon was right. Maybe Dave had just reminded him of it, the way someone could exist with confidence, with certainty, while he felt hollow. Or maybe he had always felt that way, and seeing someone else radiate it was just unbearable. Jealousy roared through him, hot and sharp, and he didn’t bother hiding it.
Before the idiot’s words could dig any deeper into Björn’s chest, a knock came at the cabin door, followed by the soft creak as it swung open. Oh, right. Zachary, his cousin, was coming today. He had completely forgotten while freezing his ass off outside, and the thought brought a flicker of relief. Finally, someone decent. Someone who didn’t mock him, didn’t make him feel small, didn’t sit across the couch judging him like Oskar always did.
“ZACH!!” Haakon shot up, rushing forward and hugging Zachary a little too tightly.
“What’s up man? I didn’t know you’d be coming, that’s awesome,” Haakon said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Björn told me to come over, said there’d be three of you-”
“Four,” Björn cut in flatly.
“Right, four. But either way, it’s okay. It can just be us,” Zachary said, sliding onto the couch next to Oskar, awkward and quiet, just waiting for someone to start the next conversation.
Haakon, of course, wasted no time. He started pleading for them to play some stupid board game he was the only good at, voice full of excitement and mischief. After a few minutes of nagging, they gave in, muttering and rolling their eyes, but the tension in the room finally eased a little.
*"Det där jävla idiotet..." * means this fucking asshole.
Javla itself just means fucker.