Work Text:
Love, Pelle once believed, was nothing more than the purest symbol of stupidity—a drug that turned people into fools.
At a certain age, everyone seemed to fall into it. They would abandon more important things for it, even give up the chance to discover something new. In other words, it had no real benefit at all. Even some of his more sensible friends back home had turned into idiots the moment they fell in love. Pelle had been thoroughly disgusted by it.
To begin with, he had never really understood what it meant to fall in love with someone.
Puberty had naturally made him curious about certain indecent things. He might find himself absentmindedly watching a beautiful woman pass by—but the idea of getting to know her, of slowly winning her heart, had never once appealed to him. If anything, dealing with people was simply troublesome.
But Øystein had slipped past Pelle’s barricades without Pelle even noticing.
He had sunk his small fangs into Pelle’s heart without hesitation, and refused to let go. At first the bite had stung—a small, sharp pain. Then the numbness began to spread through his entire body. Each day it grew stronger, as if a poison were slowly working its way through his veins.
Ah. So that was it.
It wasn’t something you could fight against. Only now did Pelle truly understand why people became so obsessed with love.
For some reason—by some miracle—his own love had been returned.
The softness of lips, the warmth of bare bodies pressed together, the pleasure found in sex—Pelle had learned all of it through Øystein. And somehow, he felt that it was right. He didn’t know why.
He had never been attracted to men before. But Øystein was an exception. He didn’t know why that was, either.
All he knew was that Øystein somehow seemed far prettier than those garish women with their heavy makeup—even with the scruffy stubble on his face.
What Pelle hadn’t expected, however, was how distorted his love would turn out to be.
People liked to define sex as becoming one with the person you love. But for Pelle, that was nowhere near enough.
He wanted Øystein entirely—from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. And more than that, he wanted them to mingle so completely that they would become a single living thing, their very cells blending together.
Pelle was watching Øystein quietly as he chewed his way through a sandwich.
Leaning his elbows on a table stained with countless rings left by cola bottles, Øystein held the sandwich carefully in both hands. Each large bite made his already round cheeks puff out even more, his jaw moving up and down in a steady rhythm.
He looks like a squirrel… or maybe a hamster, Pelle thought.
Pelle liked watching Øystein eat.
Øystein had the kind of body that clung stubbornly to life.
He was almost always hungry, and if food was offered to him he would gladly sink his teeth into it. Just earlier he had suddenly announced that he was starving and started rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.
What he eventually put together—after staring down the last scraps of ingredients left in the kitchen—was a “poor man’s sandwich,” filled with nothing but shaved cheese and ketchup. The bread had been sliced so roughly that the edges looked almost like the teeth of a saw.
He had even made one for Pelle. A silent message, perhaps, that Pelle ought to eat something proper for once.
But Pelle rejected the offer without hesitation.
“I’m not hungry. You eat both.”
Øystein clearly looked annoyed, but he didn’t say anything. He simply picked up the plate and sat down at the table.
In doing so, Pelle had successfully doubled the amount of time he could spend watching Øystein eat.
Øystein took another bite of the sandwich. Pelle remained sunk into the couch opposite him, his gaze tracing the line of Øystein’s cheek.
Pelle envied food. Food could become part of Øystein’s body so easily. It entered his mouth, was crushed between his teeth, mixed with saliva, slid down his throat and swam through the acids of his stomach. In the end, it would become his flesh and blood.
If it were possible, Pelle would have liked to be chewed up like that too, and returned to the inside of Øystein.
Or perhaps the other way around.
At last, Øystein noticed the stare that had been boring into him and looked up. When their eyes met, a small, pleased smile slipped onto his face.
“See? You are hungry. Quit being stubborn.”
With that, he lifted the plate with the other sandwich still on it and nudged it toward Pelle.
But Pelle simply shook his head. He had no desire to eat that.
At the very least, Øystein looked far more appetizing than that miserable sandwich. Especially the soft part of his upper arm when he was relaxed.
Realizing the sandwich on the plate still wasn’t going to be accepted, Øystein let out his usual sigh.
“If you don’t eat, you won’t have any spirit left.”
With that, he went back to his half-eaten sandwich.
Spirit. Yes—Øystein had plenty of it. He was strong.
Not physically—that wasn’t what Pelle meant. It was something about his mind. Øystein always seemed to stand firmly planted on the surface of this world, steady and unshaken. In that sense he was far tougher than Pelle. He was sharp, quick with words, rarely brooded over things, and generally optimistic… though that optimism often irritated Pelle.
And yet, when Øystein was tucked neatly within Pelle’s arms, or sitting small on his lap, Pelle sometimes found himself sinking into the pleasant illusion that he was the tougher one—the more manly one. As if he were the one protecting Øystein.
In reality, it was always Pelle who was being protected. Øystein hardly needed a knight to defend him. Even if some villain managed to kidnap him, he would probably end up outwitting them and strolling back home without much trouble.
Pelle studied Øystein’s body. He didn’t look particularly strong. He was small, and not very muscular. It looked as though there was only a thin layer of muscle over bone and sinew, and over that a faint softness of fat.
In a word, he was supple.
When they had first met, his body had still carried the thinness of a teenager—almost like a stick. But now, a little over a year later, he was still slender, yet there was a soft resilience to his backside and thighs, and a gentle curve flowed from his waist into them.
Pelle believed this change had happened because he loved Øystein every day. Because he devoured that body, drove his swelling desire into it, and made him receive it. Surely it was the result of all those acts. Øystein’s body itself must have begun to crave more love, evolving into something even more alluring just to tempt Pelle further.
And if the world’s so-called common sense tried to laugh it off—saying that Øystein’s body had simply matured, that he had merely grown into an adult and filled out a little—Pelle would only hate the world all the more for it. The Øystein who existed now should have been his creation.
After all, they were always within each other’s grasp.
“…You’re thinking something weird again, aren’t you?”
At some point Øystein had begun glaring at him, his eyes narrowed, a faint crease forming between his brows. It seemed he had already finished the first sandwich. With one hand he held the half-empty cola bottle by the neck, lazily rolling its base against the tabletop. It made a dull, rolling sound—like a toy top beginning to wobble before it falls.
“The hell’s with that look? Quit staring at me.”
You’ve got some nerve, Pelle thought with quiet irritation. Øystein himself stole glances at Pelle all the time.
Øystein was full of contradictions—and on top of that, he was sly.
When merely looking wasn’t enough for Pelle anymore and he reached out to touch him with some unspoken meaning, Øystein would immediately start hurling insults like “pervert” or “creep.” And yet, that same Øystein would slip into Pelle’s bed often enough, wordlessly inviting him into it.
He would never say the words I love you himself, but he would keep circling around with roundabout, pointless questions, trying to trick Pelle into saying it first.
In other words, Øystein was careful to leave himself an escape route. He would draw out from Pelle things like obsession or lust—feelings that could still, just barely, be called love—and savor them like honey.
And yet he didn’t want to accept the truth that he himself had reached for Pelle, nor the responsibility that came with it.
Coward.
Pelle rose slowly to his feet and began walking toward Øystein, who was still watching him with a suspicious look on his face. He passed the chair Øystein was sitting on and stepped behind him.
Bending forward, Pelle wrapped his arms around him, chair and all. Then, without any warning, he caught Øystein’s left earlobe between his teeth.
Øystein’s shoulders jerked upward instantly.
Pelle smirked to himself at the reaction, slowly dragging his tongue along the curve of Øystein’s ear.
Øystein was sensitive there. Extremely sensitive.
Whenever Pelle leaned in and murmured something low into his ear in the middle of it, that alone was enough to change his reaction all at once. His voice, his expression—both would take on a deeper, more vivid color.
And it was the same now. He was biting down on his lower lip, his shoulders twitching as he tried desperately to endure something.
After thoroughly licking at it, Pelle finally pulled his lips away with a deliberate little smack.
Øystein’s ear had already turned a burning red—no, not just his ear. The flush had spread all the way down toward his collarbone.
Like a boiled lobster.
Ignoring the faint, breathless protests Øystein managed to mutter between uneven breaths, Pelle tugged lightly at the collar of his black T-shirt. Peering down into the small gap it created, he could already see the slight swell of a nipple beginning to respond.
The sight pleased him immensely. Just the attention to his ear had been enough to switch Øystein on this much.
Pelle pressed the bridge of his nose against Øystein’s neck like a cat and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with his scent. Øystein’s thick, unmistakable scent made his mind gladly begin to abandon reason.
Judging by it, it had probably been three days since Øystein last showered.
Pelle liked him best when he smelled like this.
When he first turned back, he wore the same expression he always did when he was about to lecture Pelle—
but the moment he met Pelle’s eyes, it shifted into something closer to helpless confusion.
“…Why the hell are you actually getting horny? I was just eating.”
Why, he asked—but even if Pelle tried, he wouldn’t have known how to explain what exactly had sparked it, or why the desire had taken hold like this.
So he simply froze.
If he had to put it into words, maybe it was because he’d been thinking so intensely about the flesh on Øystein’s body—
and what lay even deeper inside it.
Seeing Pelle remain silent, Øystein gave a short, amused laugh.
“You’ve got a strange look on your face.
…Like you’re about to eat me.”
Unable to answer after all, Pelle simply slipped both hands beneath the hem of Øystein’s T-shirt.
When his fingers traced over the heat beginning to gather on that skin, Øystein twisted with a faint gasp. Then, as if to cover it up, he laughed and muttered that it tickled.
As if it were only that.
Øystein really was a liar.
A faint irritation with nowhere to go stirred deep in Pelle’s chest. But then Øystein leaned close and murmured into his ear—
“You first. The sandwich can wait.”
And just like that, the haze in Pelle’s mind collapsed all at once, like a cube of sugar dissolving in coffee, melting away until nothing remained.
You’re about to eat me.
That was what Øystein had just said.
If he could, Pelle would have eaten him right then and there. But since he couldn’t, Pelle had settled for taking him instead.
If biting into him and swallowing him whole was out of the question, then the closest thing Pelle knew to two becoming completely one was sex.
Which meant that Pelle wanted Øystein now. Immediately.
But the bed upstairs—where the lotion and everything else were—felt too far away.
As Pelle stood there thinking it over, he noticed the bottle of olive oil sitting on the kitchen counter, as though it had been waiting there knowingly all along.
When Pelle picked up the bottle, Øystein frowned slightly at the sight of it.
Maybe he hadn’t expected things to go all the way after all. Or maybe it was a flicker of guilt about using food for something like this.
If it was the latter, then it was a little late for him to start pretending to be virtuous now.
After all, Øystein hadn’t made any move to go upstairs and fetch the lotion. Instead, he simply took Pelle’s hand and pulled him toward the couch Pelle had been sitting on moments before.
Reversing the pull on his hand, Pelle yanked Øystein back and tossed him onto the couch. In the same motion he flipped him onto his stomach, grabbed him by the hips, and dragged him forward until his waist rested over the armrest.
Pelle tore off the bullet belt in one practiced motion, and it slipped from his hand and crashed onto the floor with a metallic clatter. Then he pulled Øystein’s pants and underwear down all at once.
Perhaps he didn’t like being handled like a child about to be punished, because Øystein suddenly kicked his heel up toward Pelle’s jaw. Pelle dodged it easily. He was already used to these half-hearted bursts of violence Øystein used to hide his embarrassment.
Øystein finally gave up and buried his face in the couch.
Which was ridiculous. He was the one who’d started this, after all.
“You really have no sense of mood.”
The small, muttered insult—little more than sour grapes—was swallowed by the couch.
Once Øystein stopped resisting, the way he lay there made him look like a helpless creature about to be devoured. The sight made Pelle impatient. He grabbed the bottle at his feet, poured a generous amount of oil into his right hand, and spread it liberally between the pale curves of Øystein’s ass. When he slowly traced the rim with his fingers, as if testing it, he felt Øystein’s breath hitch.
The stubborn slickness of the oil—and Øystein’s own experience—worked in Pelle’s favor. The first finger—Pelle’s long middle finger—slid in without resistance. Øystein didn’t make a sound yet. He was holding it in, holding his breath. Pelle wondered how long that restraint would last today. Not long, probably. He would break soon enough and start making those shameless sounds.
Expecting a good reaction, Pelle rubbed the pad of his finger against the sensitive spot inside. Immediately, Øystein’s back arched sharply.
Pleased with that reaction, Pelle added a second finger. Keeping his movements slow, he began sliding them in and out, aiming for the sensitive spot he had found earlier. Gradually, Øystein’s breathing began to tremble.
After a while, Øystein cautiously twisted around to look up at Pelle. He probably wanted a kiss. If that was the case, he should have just said so—but Øystein always hesitated to say things like that outright.
So Pelle decided to be deliberately cruel.
“How many fingers do you think are in you right now?”
The unexpected question made Øystein look plainly confused.
“…Huh… I—don’t know… three?”
Wrong answer.
Pelle let out a sigh. Øystein ought to know him perfectly.
“Still two. You should start learning my fingers properly by now.”
Pelle was genuinely disappointed. The haze that had cleared from his chest earlier began to rise again, leaving a tight knot in his throat.
With another sigh, he added the last one—the ring finger—almost out of spite.
“That’s three.”
As the three fingertips pressed and kneaded at that spot, almost pinching it from inside, Øystein finally let out a pitiful sound through clenched teeth.
Pelle found himself smiling.
Øystein fought desperately against the pleasure, trying not to lose control—but in the end he always lost like this. Pelle liked that pathetic sight. Even now, Øystein writhed under the pleasure Pelle was giving him without putting up the slightest resistance.
Pelle didn’t miss the faint sound either—the soft drip, drip of something falling to the floor.
From Øystein’s half-hard cock, sticky sweetness dripped helplessly, forming a tiny puddle on the floor. Pelle could feel the heat steadily gathering low in his own abdomen.
The view had been wonderful—but at this point, Pelle found himself wanting to see Øystein’s face.
He flipped Øystein over onto his back. Having his body turned without warning, Øystein stubbornly tried to kick at Pelle again. Pelle caught both of his heels and bent his knees, forcing his legs apart.
With everything between his legs laid bare before him, Pelle swallowed reflexively.
It felt almost like standing too long under the summer sun—dizzying somehow, like a sudden, overwhelming thirst tightening in his throat.
Øystein muttered a weak curse and covered his face with his arm, his cheeks far redder than before.
There were far more important places he should have been trying to hide.
Pelle pushed the hem of Øystein’s T-shirt up to his collarbones, fully exposing the place he had glimpsed earlier.
There they were—two small points tinted a soft red, like berries just beginning to ripen.
They looked unbearably delicious. Pelle felt as though they might quench the thirst burning inside him, and he leaned down toward them almost instinctively.
He knew that if he bit into those little fruits, a sweet, tart flavor would surely burst across his tongue. Even so, he restrained himself, merely testing the taste with the tip of his tongue, careful not to hurt him.
For a while he simply licked them like that, rolling them lightly against his tongue. But eventually that alone was no longer enough, and he drew one into his mouth, sucking gently as if hoping a drop of its hidden juice might seep out.
Unable to hold it in any longer, Øystein let out a cry of pleasure. The spot he had once insisted was “just ticklish” had grown thoroughly sensitive after being touched by Pelle almost every day.
Øystein clutched at Pelle’s head where it rested against his chest, gripping his hair so tightly it was almost as if he meant to pull it out. The pain was proof that Øystein was struggling against the pleasure overtaking him, and Pelle found it strangely satisfying.
Pelle closed his eyes in quiet delight as he tasted the sharp little peak in his mouth. Then, with the same right hand he had been using earlier, he reached once more between Øystein’s cheeks.
Loosened as it was now, it accepted three fingers smoothly from the start.
Once again he aimed for that spot, pressing in and working his fingers there with wet, messy sounds. The response he got from Øystein was a voice breaking high with sensation, overwhelmed by it.
The sound struck Pelle as unbearably sweet, and at last he granted the wish Øystein had been unable to say aloud. He sealed Øystein’s half-open mouth—already spilling short, breathless gasps—with a kiss. Immediately, Øystein clung to him, desperately tangling their tongues together.
He must have wanted this badly.
But why did Øystein want the kiss so much?
Why did he accept Pelle so completely?
Pelle still wanted to hear the answer from Øystein’s own mouth.
When the long, deep kiss finally broke, Pelle lowered his mouth once more to the small bud of Øystein’s chest—but this time to the opposite side.
With his free left hand, he lightly scratched at the other one—the one still glistening with saliva from being worked in Pelle’s mouth—using the tip of his fingernail. It was Øystein’s favorite kind of touch.
“Ah—! P-Pelle, wait, wai—ahh…”
With three of his most sensitive spots being tormented at once, Øystein’s hips jerked upward despite himself. His stomach was already soaked from the fluid that had spilled earlier. Pelle moved the fingers inside him more aggressively, obscene wet sounds echoing through the room.
Øystein could do nothing but shake his head like a petulant child and gasp for breath.
“No—no fingers…! I don’t wanna come like—ah—ah—ahh—!”
His abdominal muscles trembled violently, and at the same time the inner walls around Pelle’s fingers began to move like something alive. Then, as if finally defeated, they clamped down tight around them and held there without moving.
At that exact moment, a small spurt of clear fluid escaped from Øystein’s cock and ran down toward his navel. No cum followed—but it was unmistakably the moment he climaxed.
“You don’t like being made to come from fingers? Why not?”
Pelle pulled his fingers free. Picking up Øystein’s underwear from the floor, he wiped the oil from his hand with it as he spoke.
“What did you actually want instead?”
Instead of answering, Øystein only glared up at him while catching his breath. Several seconds passed without a word.
Then, unsteadily, Øystein pushed himself upright and placed a hand against the bulge in Pelle’s pants.
Apparently, that was what he had wanted instead of fingers.
With clumsy fingers, Øystein managed to undo the button of Pelle’s jeans.
Then he ran his tongue over the dark stain that had spread at the tip, visible even through the fabric of Pelle’s underwear.
Apparently that alone wasn’t enough for him. He quickly lost patience and yanked the underwear down.
The sudden movement made Pelle’s hard shaft spring free, smacking Øystein right across the cheek.
The sight was so ridiculous that Pelle burst out laughing.
Moments like this proved that, if anyone was good at ruining the mood at exactly the worst time, it was usually Øystein.
Which meant he really had no right to complain about Pelle having no sense of mood earlier.
Øystein ran his tongue along the exposed length. Each time more precum welled up, he licked it away and swallowed it as if savoring the taste.
Pelle already felt the urge to grab the back of Øystein’s head and force him down, filling the back of his throat so he couldn’t escape.
But the moment Øystein was about to take the hard length into his mouth, Pelle pressed a hand to his forehead and stopped him.
Øystein looked up at him with a clear note of dissatisfaction. Pelle spoke in a flat, almost indifferent tone.
“I don’t wanna come like that.”
Having his own words thrown back at him like that, Øystein’s expression twisted as though he had bitten into something bitter.
“What’s with that face? You told me the same thing earlier.”
Pelle wanted to hear it properly—what Øystein had wanted instead of fingers.
But once again, he gave no answer. When Øystein abruptly turned his face away, that familiar haze of sadness returned, this time clinging to Pelle’s heart like frost.
Maybe it had all shown plainly on his face.
When Øystein glanced up at Pelle’s eyes, he gave that troubled look again.
Whenever things reached this point, Øystein always ended up going soft on him.
As if it were the least punishment he could manage, he flicked Pelle’s jutting hipbone with his middle finger. Then, looking faintly resentful, he finally opened his mouth.
“…I wanted to come from yours, idiot.”
Øystein’s eyes were heavy with something that looked like both love and hunger directed entirely at Pelle.
Whenever Øystein looked at him like that, even Pelle’s usually indifferent heart began to pound violently.
The chill that had clung to him moments ago vanished, heat rushing through his whole body as if it had never been there.
The restless stirring in Pelle’s chest was driven away by warmth and faded somewhere out of reach.
He leaned down and placed a light kiss on the tip of Øystein’s nose.
“I want to be inside you too.
We’re the same, you and me.”
As he said it, Pelle lowered himself over Øystein’s smaller body. The couch wasn’t wide, so they had to fit themselves together carefully, like pieces of a puzzle.
When Pelle lifted Øystein’s legs and settled them over his shoulders, their bodies fit neatly within the narrow space of the couch—thanks to their lean builds, and to Øystein’s shorter height.
Pelle didn’t even have the patience left to pull his pants off.
He pressed the tip against the entrance, and the tight heat there twitched as if it had been waiting, clinging to him as though inviting him in.
Following that silent invitation, Pelle pushed himself inside.
Slowly, he moved deeper, as though confirming each fold of Øystein’s inner walls one by one.
In the moment their bodies finally joined as one, Pelle’s breath trembled with something like joy.
Øystein’s nails dug into Pelle’s arm as a rough, low sound slipped from his throat—something between a groan and a breath.
Whether it came from pain, pleasure, or something else entirely, it was impossible to tell.
Now Pelle had pushed in far enough that the coarse hair at his base was almost brushing against Øystein’s backside.
But when he tried to go any deeper, the tip met a clear barrier—a stopping point that refused to yield.
A fold that blocked any further entry, preventing the two of them from joining any deeper.
Pelle already knew there was something beyond it.
Once, not long ago, he had forced his way past it—and since then he had stubbornly done it again and again.
And today, just the same, he wanted to reach the very deepest place and be joined there.
“I want to go deeper… that’s okay, right? Come on—please.”
Even to his own ears, the voice sounded pathetically desperate. Perhaps that was what amused Øystein, because he let out a soft laugh.
The hands that had been gripping Pelle’s arms slowly loosened. Instead, Øystein took Pelle’s hands—one in each of his—and wrapped them gently in his own, threading their fingers together before squeezing them tight.
“You really are greedy.”
The hoarse words came in fragments between Øystein’s trembling breaths.
The legs that had been resting on Pelle’s shoulders slowly lowered, then curled around his waist as though pulling him closer.
“Come here, Pelle.”
Just those few words were unbearably sweet—sweet enough to make his brain feel as if it might melt away.
Moments like this were one of the very few shapes of “happiness” Pelle could feel in this world.
Unable to hold back any longer, Pelle said nothing. He pulled his hips back once—then drove himself deep inside in a single thrust.
A soft, wet sound slipped out, as if the boundary between them had vanished.
Instantly, Øystein’s body jerked upward with a cry, another spurt of clear fluid bursting from the tip.
It was too deep. Too hot.
It felt as though he might be swallowed whole.
Pelle could think of nothing anymore—nothing except I want more.
Again and again he pressed forward, as if trying to shape the deepest part of Øystein around himself.
Øystein had thrown his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat right in front of Pelle.
It was almost as if he were offering it up—go ahead, eat me, it seemed to say.
Pelle first closed his lips around the curve of his Adam’s apple, letting his tongue glide over it gently, almost the way someone might lick a lollipop, before drawing it into his mouth over and over.
In response, Øystein’s legs tightened around Pelle’s waist, clinging to him even harder.
Pelle wanted to burn every bit of it into his memory—the shameful, obscene sight of Øystein abandoning that Everest-sized pride and showing this side of himself to Pelle alone.
“Øystein?”
He called his name, making him look up at him.
Between the strands of long black hair clinging to his face, Pelle saw an expression completely undone.
Øystein’s eyelids, already heavy even at the best of times, now drooped even further, and along the edges of his lowered lashes a thin film of tears had gathered.
Through the parting of his lips, Pelle could see the wet red inside of his mouth—deeper in color even than his flushed cheeks.
Like a pomegranate split open and fallen to the ground.
What came from it sounded almost like a curse, though it no longer formed real words.
His tongue had lost the strength to shape them into anything meaningful.
“What? I don’t really understand Norwegian.”
Pelle mocked the language he was, in truth, long since used to hearing in everyday conversation. At that, Øystein suddenly snapped fully awake, glaring up at him with wet, sharp eyes.
Then, in what looked like sheer frustration, Øystein grabbed Pelle by the front of his collar and pulled him down into a biting kiss.
Inside their mouths, the sounds of their breathing and the taste of their saliva mingled together, and for a moment it felt as though the boundary between them had truly disappeared.
After that rough kiss, the same Øystein who had been stubbornly holding out only moments before was the one to raise the white flag.
“Pe—Pelle…! I—can’t… I wanna come…ah—”
The voice came out almost like a sob. Pelle laughed under his breath.
He had already come several times—so what was he complaining about now?
“After squirting all over the place like that, you’re still not satisfied?”
Humiliation.
The word alone seemed to wash over Øystein’s face, painting it an even deeper red. It looked ripe enough to bite—so vivid it made Pelle’s stomach tighten.
“Tch—! Go to hell… ngh— I wanna come… for real…!”
Øystein was already at his limit, rocking his hips in a desperate, almost pleading motion. He must have been close to the edge.
Pelle granted his wish.
After only four or five light strokes, Øystein immediately spilled, thick white release bursting out of him.
With a cry that sounded like his throat might tear apart, his whole body convulsed violently.
Inside, the tightness around Pelle drew in close, clinging to him with a desperate, almost sorrowful pull—as if it were saying don’t leave me.
The sensations flooding his vision and his body were far too vivid.
Heat surged up from the deepest part of his body like magma, and Pelle let out a low sound that almost broke into a sob.
Wrapping his arms tightly around Øystein’s writhing body, Pelle pushed himself as deep as he could and poured the thick weight of his desire into him.
The two of them rested with their foreheads pressed together, breathing hard.
As they slowly tried to steady themselves, their breaths naturally fell into the same rhythm.
That alone made Pelle unexpectedly happy. It felt as though they were sharing the same lungs.
He leaned closer still until even the tips of their noses touched, closing his eyes in quiet bliss. Then he reached down and gently stroked Øystein’s thin stomach, still slick with sweat and fluid, and offered a silent prayer.
Let Øystein get pregnant with me.
If he ever said something like that out loud, Øystein would explode in anger. I’m not a woman, he would snap.
Pelle didn’t want anything feminine from Øystein. Of course he didn’t want a baby either—screw that. That wasn’t the point at all.
Øystein simply didn’t understand.
All Pelle wanted was for his own genes to sink deep inside Øystein’s body and merge with his, until it made him sick over and over again, until that flat stomach swelled like a watermelon and his body changed completely.
That was all. That was the only thing Pelle wanted.
For a while they remained like that, still holding each other. Pelle closed his eyes and simply felt the warmth of Øystein’s body. Øystein was always warm, always giving off a quiet heat that seemed to seep into him. For a moment it felt as though even the tiniest capillaries in their bodies might connect and merge.
But gradually, the rhythm of their breathing began to fall out of sync. The change dragged Pelle abruptly back to reality, and he opened his eyes as if jolted awake.
Øystein was already asleep in front of him, breathing softly.
Pelle couldn’t help thinking how perfectly Øystein embodied the three basic human urges—fill his stomach, have sex, then fall asleep in the lingering haze of pleasure. At this rate he’d probably end up in hell for the sin of sloth.
Though Pelle supposed he’d end up there too—for greed. So it hardly mattered.
Pelle would have liked to stay joined like that forever, but if he didn’t clean things up Øystein would only get angry with him later. Reluctantly, he slowly withdrew himself. From the hollow left behind, a thick white spill began to ooze out. No matter how many times he planted it there, it would never take root—only be pushed back out again. In the end, no matter how many times they had sex, it only reminded him that it was nothing more than a temporary ritual meant to imitate becoming one.
For the moment, Pelle glanced around the room, wondering where the tissues were. That was when he found himself meeting the abandoned sandwich’s gaze. From the table, it seemed to stare back at him resentfully. He should probably cover it with a cloth or something soon, before it hardened into something barely edible.
“Hey. Wake up.”
Pelle gave Øystein’s cheek a few light pats. Øystein stirred, snorting awkwardly as he woke.
“You’re not gonna eat that?”
At Pelle’s question, Øystein answered in a muffled mumble, his voice even more sluggish and hard to make out than usual.
“Nah… I’m good. Kinda full after that. Leave it. Jan’ll eat it.”
At the mention of their other housemate—the one who had said he’d be staying at some girl’s place until tomorrow—Pelle pulled a face. To him, the man was nothing but an impurity in the house.
But at the same time, a surge of satisfaction rose strong enough to cancel out the irritation. Pelle glanced back at the sandwich and spoke to the inanimate thing as if it could hear him.
Hear that? He says he’s full because of me. I win. Serves you right.
“Creepy. What are you grinning about?”
Pelle didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped down beside Øystein without a word, almost forcing his way onto the narrow couch. Øystein groaned and shifted, twisting his body to keep his balance. Naturally, the left side of his body ended up draped over Pelle, and Pelle caught him there, pulling him into an embrace.
Pelle’s scar-roughened arm pressed flush against Øystein’s smooth, soft skin, filling even the faint grooves between the lines of old wounds.
What are you to me?
Pelle almost asked Øystein that question, but stopped himself. He already had a pretty good idea what Øystein would say.
Think about it and you’ll know. Don’t make me spell it out.
The weight of Øystein, already slipping back into sleep, left Pelle unable to move. With nothing else to do, he followed the voice he had imagined earlier in his head and began to think.
Øystein was morphine.
If he took it, the unbearable pain Pelle felt simply from being alive would ease. But the effect was temporary, and the side effects were severe. He would take it, the pain would fade, and he would feel full. When the effect wore off, he would crave more and take it again. The dosage would never stay within limits. And if he kept repeating that cycle, someday it would reach the lethal dose.
As a cause of death, it would be far too sweet. The worst kind.