iithium

Masterlist for all my posts

RORY CULKIN + CHARACTERS:

CHAP 10: Missed Touches

playing: Varúõ by Sigur Rós - dont start the song yet.

Time passed like smoke—visible, then gone. They moved through the same city, under the same grey sky, but never crossed paths. She still looked at the bridge sometimes. He still held onto the ring his father gave him. And neither of them knew what the other was waiting for. Only that they were waiting.

The day they met again was the first day the sun seemed to come through the clouds in weeks. It was at Helvete, a familiar place that now felt different—emptier somehow, without the soft hum of her presence. He was sitting on the counter, leaning back with a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds, like he could feel her before she even walked in. And then she did. She looked different. Still herself—so herself—but somehow softer around the edges. The bruise was gone, like it had never been there, though he still remembered the way it had looked, the way it had felt to see her hurting.

But she was here now, stepping into the store like she belonged. She was wearing a loose shirt and ripped jeans, her hair falling in soft waves, not as styled as before but still her. She smiled when she saw him, a hesitant thing, but genuine. The kind of smile that had been missing for so long. She crossed the room, stopping a few feet away from him the counter a barrier between them. Neither of them knew what to say at first. “You look… better,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was soft, like he was afraid to break the moment.

She nodded, glancing down at her shoes for a second before meeting his gaze. “I’ve been doing okay.” A beat passed between them, heavy, as if they were both waiting for the next thing to happen. He finally broke the silence with a quiet chuckle. There was something new in the way they spoke now, an ease that hadn’t been there before. Not the desperate tension, not the anger, not the hurt. Just a quiet, fragile kind of peace. They had been through so much to get here, and though the past still lingered like smoke in the air, it wasn’t choking them anymore.

“I’m sorry for—well, everything,” he said, his voice suddenly quieter, more serious. “For… leaving. For what happened. I was just… I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She looked at him, her gaze steady. “You don’t have to apologize for protecting me, Øystein. But you have to know—you don’t have to carry all of it. I can carry some of it, too, you need to stop convincing yourself im gonna leave, because I don't want to leave. I just… needed space. I needed to find myself again.” He nodded, as if the weight of her words was settling somewhere deeper inside him. There was a quiet relief in that, in the fact that they could talk again, without the sharp edges of unspoken resentment or fear.

“I missed you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “So much. It’s stupid, but I don’t know how to say it.” She smiled, that same smile that made him feel like maybe they’d both be alright. “I missed you too, Øystein. More than I thought I would.” For a long moment, they just stood there, eyes locked. The air between them felt heavy but not in a bad way—like a calm after the storm. Finally, he gave a half-smile and said, “You still owe me those photos, you know.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t leave her lips. “I’ll take them. But only if you promise not to look so grumpy when I do.”“Deal.” He grinned, the familiar playful light returning to his eyes.

For the first time in a long while, they were both just… present. No more running. No more hiding. Just the quiet, comfortable reality of being in each other's space again. And maybe that was all they needed.

A few days later.

She stood outside Helvete, her hand resting on the doorframe as she waited for him. The sound of footsteps grew louder, the soft, rhythmic patter of boots on the ground, until he appeared in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the light spilling from inside. When she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. He was dressed in all black—everything about him sharp, almost otherworldly. His usual casual style was gone. He wore his corpse paint like armor, the pale whites and blacks stark against his skin. The black cape hung over his shoulders, flowing like a dark cloud around him. He looked like someone who had stepped out of a nightmare, or perhaps a dream.

She smirked, eyes narrowing with a mix of awe and amusement. “Seriously? okay” she teased, her voice playful as she crossed her arms over her chest. He smirked back, but there was something softer behind his eyes when he saw her standing there. “Why not? It’s the right kind of day for it.” His voice was teasing, but there was also an odd sense of pride in the way he carried it. “Right,” she chuckled, shaking her head. They shared a brief moment of quiet, both of them standing on the threshold of something unsaid. He looked at her, the faintest smile pulling at his lips before he offered a quiet, “Ready?”“Ready,” he answered.

(start the song)

The two of them roamed through the decaying structure, laughter echoing off crumbling walls as she snapped pictures of the ruined spaces around them, occasionally catching him in the frame. His pose was always dramatic—head tilted at odd angles, the ghostly, painted face giving the place a haunted quality. She couldn’t help but laugh each time, capturing him in a way that made him look both absurd and almost godlike in his absurdity. “okay now look at me” she said, twisting her camera lens a bit. "just with your eyes" He did as she said which caused laughs to come from her "okay maybe not" she smiled, He chuckled shaking his head before he stood serious again, she chuckled and smiled with every picture she snapped.

She didn’t even have a chance to register the shift before he was right there, just inches away. Her laughter died in her throat as his hand reached for the back of her neck, fingers curling around it in a way that felt almost possessive. His grip tightened just slightly, pulling her forward until their lips met.

It was fast, sudden, and completely overwhelming. The kiss was hot, urgent, like everything that had been unspoken between them was finally spilling over. She gasped, caught off guard, but as quickly as the kiss started, he pulled away, his eyes looking into hers with something unreadable in them, his paint all over her mouth now.

Before she could say anything, he spun her around, she fell onto the bed, her cheek hitting his pillow, the world outside didn’t matter anymore. There was no more hesitation, no more waiting. Just the overwhelming need to feel each other, to finally be together in this way, after all the hurt and confusion they’d endured.

The moments blurred together as they came together in a flurry of lips, hands, and quiet whispers, the sounds of their breaths mingling in the silence of the room. She didn’t think, didn’t question it—just let herself be carried away in the storm of it all. her quiet noises, the look in his eyes as he gaze at her on top of him, their lips moving against one another as his thrusts came in a soft manner, the shaky breaths, his long hair merging with hers as he shook his hair to free it, a chuckle slipping through her swollen lips

"sorry" she chuckled wiping the paint off her lips and then wiping his lips with the back of her hand as he smiled "it looks good" he murmured, his hands resting on her back as she chuckled her head falling forward a bit before he kissed her again.

When they finally came to rest, breathless and tangled together, their bodies fitting together as naturally as though they were made for this, there was a sense of quiet satisfaction. They didn’t speak much after, but there was a softness in the way he held her, a feeling of closeness that hadn’t been there before. It was like everything had led them here, to this quiet, perfect moment of vulnerability.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace. and so did she.

he lit a cigarette as she wiped some of the paint they'd smudged off his face with a small chuckle as he smoked, she took the cig from between his lips as she took a drag laying down next to him. before he fell asleep.

The apartment was still, wrapped in the gentle grey hush of early morning. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a slow, steady rhythm that echoed through the quiet rooms. She sat curled on the couch, legs tucked under her, one hand around a warm mug of coffee, the other resting in her lap. She was wearing his black and blue sweater — it swallowed her frame, sleeves half-covering her hands — and her hair was slightly messy, left untouched since she woke. She’d been up for maybe twenty minutes, unable to sleep. She hadn't wanted to wake him, so she let the kettle hiss and the floor creak beneath her bare feet, sipping coffee while looking through the old box of photos they'd pulled out the week before.

There was a picture of him and Pelle that she kept staring at. Arms draped over one another, stupid grins on their faces, middle fingers to the camera. He looked so young. So alive. Like none of them had any idea how quickly the world would go to hell. Euronymous padded quietly across the room, shirtless, track pants riding low on his hips, hair messy from sleep and still damp with sweat, but the paint was completely cleaned off his face she made sure of it. He didn’t say anything as he sat down beside her, his eyes distant, unfocused.

She didn’t ask if he was okay. She could tell from the heaviness in his shoulders that something had woken him — something bad. But he hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t made a sound. Wordlessly, she shifted the mug in her hand and held it out to him. He took it with a grateful glance, his fingers brushing hers as he brought it to his lips and took a slow sip. The warmth seemed to ground him a little. He exhaled after, like it helped him settle back into his body.

“I saw him again,” he said softly, after a beat. “In the woods behind the old place.” She stayed quiet, listening. “He looks at me, smiling” he added, voice low. “and just runs. Always. And I can never catch him.” She watched him for a moment, then leaned her shoulder gently against his. “maybe you're not supposed to catch him” she said. “It's not your fault.” He handed the mug back to her and looked at the box of photos on her lap. One sat on top — the one with Pelle laughing, arm thrown around Euronymous’s neck, their paint on their face pretending to be all scary. “We were fucking idiots,” he said with a faint, fragile smile. “We thought we were invincible.”

“You kind of were,” she murmured. “Just… not in the way you thought.” He turned his head to look at her — the dark circles under his eyes, the tired set of his jaw — but when he met her gaze, there was softness, too. The way he looked at her like she was the only steady thing in a world that never stopped shaking. “You always make it hurt a little less, you know that?” he said. She leaned forward and placed the mug down on the floor before slipping her hand into his. His thumb brushed hers, slow and careful. They sat like that in the quiet for a long while. Not talking. Just being.

And outside, the rain kept falling.

The next few days blurred into a soft routine — one that felt borrowed from a world far gentler than theirs. He would wake up tangled in their sheets, the light filtering through half-closed curtains. She always made coffee, and he always stole the first sip. Mornings were spent on the couch or in the kitchen, legs draped over laps, ashtrays filling with the lazy spiral of smoke. Music playing low, her camera sometimes resting on the counter, untouched but close — like the urge to capture the fleeting stillness might strike at any moment.

They cooked together, or tried to. He teased her about burning the rice. She rolled her eyes when he tried to flip pancakes and failed miserably. The TV stayed on late into the night, casting dull light over their faces as they laid against one another, too tired to talk but never too tired to touch. It was during one of those quiet mornings, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while folding laundry, that she started to talk. “My mom used to hang everything outside. Even in the winter,” she said, shaking out one of his shirts. “She liked the way clothes smelled after being out in the cold.”

He hummed. “That why you always leave my stuff on the balcony rail?” She smiled faintly. “Maybe.” There was a beat. Then another. "I miss her" Euronymous didn’t say anything at first. He just reached over and gently touched her ankle, grounding her. Letting her know he was listening. He leaned over and rested his forehead to her shoulder. She let him stay there like that — still, silent, breathing her in. That was the thing about being with him. He didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. He just stayed. And when the phone rang — shrill, sharp — the moment broke like glass.

He kissed her bare shoulder once, then got up to answer it. She watched from the floor, her stomach twisting the moment she heard the name on the other end.

Varg.

She didn’t ask what the call was about, not immediately. She knew the look in his eyes. That dangerous, restless fire. The same one he used to get before gigs. Before trouble. He left not long after, with a promise to be back soon. She didn’t try to stop him. But her chest was tight the entire time he was gone. She didn’t know what happened when he met Varg. Only that he came back with fury in his eyes. He slammed the door, marched into their bedroom, and without a word sat at his typewriter — the same one he used for every release, every announcement. The keys clacked like gunshots in the quiet apartment. He worked with precision, jaw clenched, the fury pouring into every letter.

He slid the finished contract into an envelope, sealed it. Done. before he moved to the front door, He found her outside on the balcony — the same rug from all those chapters ago laid out beneath her, soft and familiar. She was laying on it with her knees bent, staring up at the washed-out sky, a blanket half-draped over her legs. Her voice came quiet, cracked open in that vulnerable way that always undid him. “Are you really going to die for this?” He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there in the doorway, watching her like it might be the last time.

She turned her head toward him, eyes glassy. “Øystein, please,” she said, her voice shaking. “Step back. Let it go. Let him go. Whatever this is between you two — whatever this war is becoming — I don’t want to watch you burn in it.” He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling as he stepped outside, boots on the rug. “I can’t just walk away,” he said, voice strained. She sat up now, hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “Then at least take a step back. Please. I have this… feeling. not a good one.” He kneeled down in front of her. “I already lost my parents. I don’t want to lose you too,” she said, her breath catching. “I can’t.” she sniffled "I cant lose you too, please" she pleased, His hands found her face, thumbs brushing the tears that had started to fall. “You won’t lose me,” he whispered.

“Promise me.” she gulped licking her lips "promise me I wont." “I promise.” It wasn’t said in a whisper of reassurance. It was a vow. A declaration. Maybe even a lie, if fate had its way. But he meant it when he said it. For her — he would try. And that, for now, was everything. she prayed to whoever she could that his promise wouldn't end up broken.

The next few days felt like trying to sleep with a knife under your pillow. y/n kept waking up in the middle of the night — eyes wide, heartbeat rattling in her chest, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. Every time she’d look beside her, Euronymous would be there, peacefully asleep, mouth slightly open, an arm thrown lazily across her waist. Alive. Safe. And yet, the nightmares kept coming. The images haunted her sleep: his body twisted in an alley, blood seeping into snow. His face — empty-eyed, mouth slack, as she screamed and no sound came out. Varg’s smirk behind him. A church burning in the background. The phone ringing in the distance, but never getting picked up. Her running, always too late.

Sometimes she’d wake up already crying.

She didn’t tell him at first. She didn’t want to make it worse — didn’t want to weigh him down with her dread when he was already stretched so thin. He was busy, always on edge. The fallout with Varg was growing colder and sharper by the day. The phone didn’t stop ringing. Studio sessions, orders, band meetings. Always more.

But it started to wear on her. She became quieter. Jumpier. Every time he left, she’d linger at the door longer than usual. Her hands hovered near his jacket, always straightening it, always stalling. When he kissed her forehead before stepping out, she held on for a few seconds too long. “You okay?” he asked once. She nodded, quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.” But her eyes said something else. At night, she’d sit curled on the couch while he read or played tapes. She barely touched her food. Her fingernails were chewed down to the skin. On the fourth night, she woke up gasping — the dream more vivid than ever. In it, she had found the contract he wrote for Varg crumpled in blood, and the phone was off the hook. There was no one left to call.

She sat up in bed, her hands shaking. The sweat clinging to her hair. Euronymous stirred beside her, woken by her ragged breathing. “Hey,” he said softly, sitting up. “You’re okay. I’m here.” She didn’t speak. Just buried her face in his chest, her fingers curling into his shirt, clutching him like he’d vanish if she let go. That night, he didn’t ask questions. He just held her. Wrapped himself around her like armor. Let her fall asleep against his chest, where she could hear his heart beating — slow, steady, real. Still alive. For now. But the feeling didn’t go away. And as each day passed, she couldn’t help but count the moments — like they were slipping through her fingers before she ever got the chance to hold them properly.

The nightmares didn’t stop. They clung to her like the smell of smoke in old denim. Every night she dreamed of him bleeding out on a cold floor, or of the police showing up at her door with ash on their shoes and his name in their mouths. She didn’t tell him every time. Sometimes she just woke up and stared at the ceiling, her chest hollow, reaching for him in the dark to make sure he was still breathing. And he always was. But that wasn’t the point. He noticed, of course. The way she clutched his t-shirts tighter around her body. The new bruises beneath her eyes, carved by sleeplessness. How she barely let him out of her sight without flinching like it might be the last time. And for a while, he did what he always did—pretended it wasn’t that bad, that everything was under control.

Until one morning, he woke up alone. The bed was cold, and the quiet in the apartment made his chest tighten. He found her out on the balcony, legs pulled to her chest, his oversized black and blue sweater swallowing her whole. She was watching the sky shift colors as the sun came up, not crying, just still. Too still. He didn’t speak at first. Just sat down beside her, knees pulled up, resting his arms on them. he sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, staring out across the sleeping city.

They sat in silence for a while. The morning air was sharp and cold, but she didn’t move. And neither did he. Then, finally “I’ve been thinking about stepping back,” he said. She blinked, startled. “What?” “I mean it. The Circle, the press, all of it. I’ve been acting like I’m invincible, like I have something to prove. But I’ve already got everything I want right here. I just… forgot for a while.” She turned to look at him fully, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” “I’m tired of pretending the whole world is a stage,” he said. “Tired of playing the villain just to make Varg feel like a goddamn martyr. I don’t want to be a myth. I want to be yours.” Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway out of her throat. “I’ve been so scared, Øystein.”

“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate that I let you be.” He reached over, gently pressing his forehead to her shoulder, just like he had all those months ago when things were quieter. She closed her eyes and leaned into it, breathing him in. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m not dying for a scene full of boys trying to outdo each other. I’ll still make music. Still be me. But not if it means losing you.” A shaky breath left her lips. “You mean that?” “I do.” She leaned her head against his. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For staying.” He gave a small smile. “I didn’t stay. I came home.” And for the first time in what felt like weeks, her heartbeat slowed.

Jan Axel was the only one who knew that Øystein was going to step back. he supported his best friend, he kept the circle under control to his best abilities until it all cracked.

to be fair,

CHAP 9: Tape Hiss

playing: "Dust Bowl" - Ethel Cain Unreleased

The silence after that night was louder than anything he’d ever screamed. A few days. That’s all. Not weeks, not months. But in the static space between, time buckled and stretched and tore. Her brain kept circling like a vulture over his words on the bridge—“You remind me I exist.” They played on loop in the back of her skull, tape hiss and all, warped and grainy and painful in its repetition. She didn’t see him at Helvete. Didn’t hear from him. Not even a knock, not even a breath down the phone line. Nothing. So when there was a knock—loud, insistent, late—she froze. It was almost midnight. Her tea had gone cold. The only light in the apartment came from the orange spill of the kitchen and the dull grey of a paused VHS tape in the living room. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside the window, its ash trailing like time unraveling.

The knock came again

She moved slowly, deliberately. Part of her wanted to ignore it, pretend she didn’t hear. Pretend she wasn’t still holding on to that moment on the bridge, to the weight of his ring in her coat pocket. But when she opened the door, all of her hesitation dissolved like smoke. Euronymous was leaning against the doorframe, eyes glassy and bloodshot, hair wild from the wind and his own hands. He reeked of cigarettes and something sharper—vodka, probably—and his cheeks were red from the cold. His body swayed slightly, not quite able to decide whether it was going to stay standing or collapse entirely. He looked at her like she was the last thing anchoring him to the world. “I fucked up,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, throat dry. “I said too much. Or not enough. Or both.”

She stepped aside without a word, and he staggered inside. She closed the door behind him and turned, only to find him standing there in the middle of her living room, hands trembling slightly as they hung at his sides. “I thought I could wait,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Give you space. But everything—everything I do just comes back to you. Your laugh. Your shitty coffee. The way you—” His voice broke, his eyes finally meeting hers. “You’re in everything now. And I don’t know how to be normal with that.” She stepped closer, cautious, her chest aching. “You’re drunk.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I thought it’d shut it off. The noise. You know?” There was a long silence. Just the hiss of the VHS tape, still paused on some forgotten frame, the muted hum of the radiator. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

And then something broke.

“I loved Pelle,” he said suddenly, sharply, like it hurt. “I loved him. And now I look at you and I—God—” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I can’t lose again. Not like that.” His voice cracked open, raw. “You make me want to try. You make me scared.” She didn’t realize she’d moved until her hands were on his face, thumbs brushing over the tear-tracks already carving their way down his cheeks. He leaned into her touch like he’d been starved for it. And when she kissed him, it wasn’t sweet or soft or planned. It was frantic. Messy. Their lips collided like an apology and a confession at once, months of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight. His hands gripped her waist, desperate and shaking, while hers tangled in the fabric of his coat.

She tasted the vodka on his tongue, the salt of his tears. He tasted like every bad decision she’d ever wanted to make twice. And then, just as suddenly, it was over. He rested his forehead against hers, panting. “I didn’t come here for that,” he whispered. “I know,” she said, voice trembling. They stayed like that, breathing the same air, suspended in the haze. And then the routine again. By morning, the chaos had settled into quiet. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to. They smoked two full packs of cigarettes between them, curled on her floor with the windows cracked open to the Oslo cold. He played with her hair as she read aloud random lines from an old photography book.

They ate leftovers. Watched two movies in a row. Barely spoke. But he didn’t leave. And she didn’t ask him to. The kiss lived in the silence between them, but neither of them tried to press against it. Not yet.

The dark apartment was lit only by the occasional flicker of the muted TV and the cherry glow of their cigarettes the moon light casting some light in through the big window in the living room. They were sprawled across the living room floor, surrounded by ashtrays, empty mugs, and a blanket that neither of them was using properly. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, and his hand idly played with the strands of her hair, looping them around his fingers and letting them fall again. She looked up at him, the curve of her mouth twitching at the sight of his concentration on something so absentminded. “You always do that when you're deep in thought,” she said softly.

He blinked. “What?” She reached up and tugged gently on a piece of her hair caught in his fingers. “That.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Right.” There was a quiet beat before he added, “I told my family about you.” She froze. “What?” He shrugged, trying to play it off, but his ears were pink. “Last time I visited. My mom kept asking if I was seeing anyone. And I—I told her about you. Not everything, obviously. But… enough.” She sat up slowly, folding her legs beneath her looking down at him. “You did?” He nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “She was excited. Told me to bring you by sometime. Said she hasn’t seen me look this ‘light’ in years. My little sister already made a joke about whether you'd survive a family dinner with all the black metal posters in the dining room.” Her brows lifted. “Wait, there are black metal posters in the dining room?” “Don’t ask,” he muttered, laughing. “My dad framed one of my flyers and put it next to a crucifix just to ‘balance the energy’ in the house.”

She laughed, and it made something flutter in his chest. It quieted again, comfortably, until he spoke once more. “About the kiss…” She stilled, but didn’t look away. “Yeah?” He swallowed. “I didn’t regret it. I meant it. Even if I was—fucked up and tired and full of every bad feeling at once, it still felt… right.” She looked at him for a long moment. “I didn’t regret it either.” His breath left him slowly, like he’d been holding it since. “I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I don’t think I even know how to be… good at this.” She reached out, fingers brushing his, intertwining slowly. “We don’t have to know. Not yet.” He looked down at their hands, then back at her. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

The rehearsal space was its usual chaos—cables snaking across the floor, half-empty bottles of beer and soda littering the amps, Hellhammer pounding away behind the kit as Occultus adjusted his mic stand. y/n sat cross-legged on the battered couch near the wall, camera in her lap, black hoodie drawn tight around her, snapping occasional shots in the dim light when no one was paying attention. Euronymous had smiled at her earlier, the soft kind—the one that didn’t quite reach the surface when the others were around. Varg showed up late, as usual. He strode in wearing that smug sneer, tape in one hand, a cigarette already half-finished in the other. “Sorry. Some of us have actual things to do,” he said loudly, mostly toward Euronymous. “You mean playing synths alone in a basement and reading about fire?” Hellhammer muttered under his breath. Varg ignored him. He moved to lean against a crate, eyes sweeping the room, briefly resting on y/n. “So. I was thinking. The next Mayhem record needs to go bigger. I want the Nidaros Cathedral on the cover. In flames. Real flames. Real church. We torch it and get someone to shoot it for the artwork.”

Everyone paused. Hellhammer raised an eyebrow. Attila scoffed. Euronymous’s voice was sharp, flat, almost bored. “You're out of your fucking mind.” “No, I'm just the only one here who actually believes in anything,” Varg bit back. “You’re all talk. You sell rebellion and nihilism in a record store, but you still play it safe. You dress the part, but that’s all it is—costume.” Euronymous turned from tuning his guitar, slow and steady. “Say that again.” “I said,” Varg stepped forward, “you’re a fake revolutionary. You want chaos but not consequences. You built Helvete so you could be king of something small. And now that things are getting real, you’re scared. She knows it too.” y/n's stomach dropped. Euronymous’s shoulders tensed. “Leave her out of it.”

Varg smirked. “Why? She’s part of the act, isn’t she? The soft spot. Your little secret normalcy. What would Dead say, huh? You falling for someone who listens to fucking Hole and takes pictures of flowers on her porch?” Everything in the room stilled. Hellhammer stood up halfway. Attila looked between them, frowning. Euronymous’s jaw flexed once before he glared at Varg.“Shut your fucking mouth.” Varg’s smirk cracked into something darker. “Or what? You’ll cry about it in your notebook? Go ahead. as if you would hit me. and if you did, it won’t make you any less hollow.” Reader had already stood, heart pounding.

“Øystein—” He didn’t turn to her, not yet. His fists were balled. But he stepped back. Barely. Euronymous looked like he was burning from the inside out. “You ever say anything about her again,” he said, voice low and cold, “and I will fucking kill you. Don’t test me, Kristian.” The air stayed brittle for another long second "my name is Varg!" he roared as the others shook their head preparing to start playing. Euronymous still didn’t look at anyone. Not even her. after they were done recording, Varg scoffed and walked off toward the back exit, muttering something in Norwegian that none of them cared to catch. she walked up quietly, close but not touching. She could feel the tremor running through him. “I didn’t mean to cause—” He cut her off, finally looking at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “You didn’t,” he said hoarsely. “This is on him.”

The drive out of Oslo was quiet—too quiet. Rain kissed the windshield in faint rhythms as the city lights gave way to pine forests and old roads winding through sleepy terrain. Euronymous kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting in a tight fist against his thigh. His knuckles were pale from the pressure, his jaw unmoving. y/n hadn’t spoken since they got in the car. She watched the side of his face, the set of his mouth, the way his eyes never left the road. The tension in him was palpable. Like if she reached out, she might touch something shattering beneath the surface.

It wasn’t until the headlights passed a sign marking the next town that she finally spoke, voice barely above the hum of the heater. “Are you okay?” A beat. Then two. “I don’t know,” he answered, his voice rough from disuse. She waited, giving him room. He exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She shook her head. “Don’t apologize for defending me. You don’t have to defend me, you know.” “Yes, I do,” he said, sharp and certain. Then softer, “I want to.” her heart ached a little at that. You looked out the window. “I know you said your family knows about me. Are you… sure this is a good idea? With everything going on?” His grip on the wheel relaxed, just slightly.

“They’ll like you,” he said. “My mom already does, and she hasn’t even met you. My sister thinks it’s cool I have someone who puts up with my bullshit. She told me not to fuck it up.” You smiled, letting your shoulder rest lightly against the door. “I’m not really used to families being... warm.” He glanced at you then. “You don’t have to be used to it. Just... let them be kind to you.” You nodded, letting the quiet settle again—but softer this time. No longer heavy. Just two people in a car, headlights flickering across the dark, carrying them toward something uncertain and unfamiliar.

Maybe even good. The house stood low and quiet at the end of a gravel driveway, framed by soft yellow porch light and thick trees that bent in the night breeze. You stepped out of the car slowly, heart drumming beneath Euronymous’s black and blue sweater. He lingered beside you, unusually hesitant, eyes flicking toward the front door. “They’ll love you,” he said, but his voice held a flicker of nerves. Before you could answer, the front door opened. A woman stepped out onto the porch—petite, with a gentle face and brown hair swept into a bun. Behind her, a girl about fourteen peeked over her shoulder, already grinning.

“Øystein!” his mother called, descending the steps. “You didn’t tell me she was this beautiful!” You barely had time to register the compliment before she was wrapping her arms around you, warm and lavender-scented, like an embrace you didn’t know you’d been starving for. It knocked the breath out of you in the softest way “Thank you for coming,” she said into your shoulder, voice thick with feeling. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.”

Euronymous looked at you like he was seeing something quietly sacred. His sister waved excitedly, then pulled you in next, immediately launching into rapid questions about your job, your camera, your favorite records. Her warmth came easy, no effort needed. Inside, the house was cozy and full of mismatched charm—soft lighting, old framed photographs, the smell of stew still lingering from dinner. They made you tea. His mother gave you slippers. His sister stole your jacket to try it on and then refused to give it back. His father discussed some old authors with her.

And Euronymous just… watched. Not with suspicion or guarded pride like he usually wore around others. Just quiet awe. Later, when his mom and sister went to prepare dessert and you offered to help but were shooed away, his dad called him out back to help with firewood. The sky was full of stars. Cold enough to see their breath “You’ve changed,” his father said after a minute, handing him a log. “Good change.” Euronymous scoffed. “I still run a record shop you pay for and my band hasn't released anything in a while, Papa.” “I meant You smile more.” Euronymous didn’t respond. Just tossed a piece of wood onto the pile. His dad pulled a small, worn ring from his pocket. Gold, plain, but softened with time and memory. “I gave this to your mother before we were married. Didn’t have much money. But it was enough.”

He handed it to Euronymous without ceremony. “Keep it,” he said. “For when the time’s right. You’ll know.” Euronymous stared at it. His throat felt dry. His fingers closed around it like he was afraid it might vanish. When he walked back inside and saw you laughing at some joke his sister made, his mother’s hand resting fondly on your arm, he slipped the ring into his jacket pocket. Maybe someday.

Later that night, back in his childhood bedroom, everything had the stillness of something sacred. You lay curled on his old twin bed, the blankets thick and warm, smelling faintly of cedar and old books. The dim light of a small lamp cast soft shadows on the pale walls—band posters still tacked up, a few old records leaned against the bookshelf. A photo of him and his little sister, smiling with ice cream-stained mouths, sat framed on the desk. Euronymous sat beside you, one leg tucked under himself, watching you scroll lazily through photos you’d taken on your camera earlier. The corners of his mouth lifted when he caught one of Faust making a stupid face with his tongue out at the pub, another of his sister trying on your sunglasses and dramatically posing. You’d even gotten a blurry one of him and his mom mid-laugh in the kitchen, her hands flour-dusted, his eyes soft.

He looked over at you, brow gentle. “You’re good at this,” he said, and his voice didn’t have that usual edge. Just truth. You smiled. “They’re easy to take pictures of. All of you. You’ve got good faces.” He gave a small laugh, and you could feel the warmth of it settle in your chest. You shifted, resting your head against his shoulder. “They love you so much,” you murmured. “They’re my people,” he said, softly, almost like he was surprised. “But… I never thought I’d bring someone back with me.” You tilted your face up to look at him. “Are you glad you did?” He met your gaze, quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m really fucking glad.” You sat in silence, his arm moving to wrap around you instinctively. You fit there easily, breathing in sync. The world outside was still. All the noise—the band, the studio, Varg, Oslo, the burnings—fell away in this moment.

“I kept waiting to feel like I didn’t belong,” you whispered. Euronymous turned slightly, his voice low. “You don’t have to feel that here. Not with them. Not with me.” Your fingers found his. He let them, let them intertwine. “I don’t remember what it feels like to have a mom fuss over me,” you said, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t know I missed it.” “I saw the way you looked at her,” he said. “Like you were trying not to get used to it.” You smiled, a little watery. “Can you blame me?” He was quiet for a while. Then he pulled you closer, so you were tucked against his side, your legs tangled with his, his hand brushing gently through your hair. “You belong here,” he said into the top of your head. “You do.”

And when you looked up again, he was already watching you, like he hadn’t stopped. You kissed his cheek, soft and slow. He closed his eyes at that. Just held you tighter. That night, neither of you said I love you, but it clung to the air between every breath. In the sound of your laughs. In the way he curled around you when the lights went out. In the way your fingers stayed laced even after you both drifted to sleep. And the ring—still warm from his father’s hand—sat safely tucked in the front pocket of his leather jacket, waiting.

The next morning came softly, with the kind of peace neither of you realized you’d needed so badly. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tile, glinting off coffee cups and butter knives. The smell of cinnamon, yeast, and brewed coffee drifted from the oven and pot, filling the air with warmth. You and Euronymous padded downstairs, still in sleep-wrinkled clothes—him in a plain black t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, you bundled in his beige sweater again, hair pulled up loosely. His mother was already bustling around the kitchen, humming under her breath, while his little sister peeked up from a book at the table and grinned when she saw you both.

“There’s the happy couple,” she teased. “Shut up,” Euronymous said around a yawn, ruffling her hair as he passed. His mom waved you both toward your chairs. “Sit, sit. Breakfast is almost ready. I hope you’re hungry.” The table was a simple spread of comfort: warm bread, homemade jam, slices of cheese and soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon buns straight from the oven, and mugs of fresh tea and coffee. You felt your shoulders loosen just sitting down. Conversation was easy. His mom asked you about photography—“You’ve really got an eye for detail, I can tell”—and his sister wanted to know what kind of music you actually liked before you got tangled up in all this black metal madness.

Euronymous just watched you at first, soft smile playing on his lips as you talked with his family like you’d always been there. He joined in eventually, telling an embarrassing story about how his sister used to put bows in his hair when they were kids. You all laughed so hard his dad nearly choked on his coffee. When the meal wound down, and plates were cleared and hugs were exchanged at the door, his mother lingered in front of you. She looked at you with that kind of tenderness that felt like home. “You’re good for him,” she said simply, brushing a hand down your arm. “He looks at you like he’s finally come up for air.”

You blinked back emotion and nodded. “Thank you. I really… I really love being here.” Euronymous squeezed your hand tight when you stepped outside. He was quiet as the car pulled away from the curb, the family waving you off from the porch. The drive back to Oslo was full of that soft silence again—the kind that didn’t need filling. You kept your fingers laced between his as you watched the trees blur past in snowy stretches. Once, he glanced over at you with a look so gentle you almost didn’t recognize it. “Thanks for coming with me,” he murmured. You smiled. “Thanks for bringing me.” He looked back at the road, but his grip on your hand stayed firm. A small curve of his mouth still lingered, like a secret he was keeping just for you.

They hadn’t meant to stop at Helvete.

The plan was to drive straight back to Oslo, maybe grab takeaway on the way, crawl back into her bed with records spinning until nightfall. But as they crossed into the city, Euronymous took a sharp turn down the narrow street that led to the shop, muttering something about checking on the guys. The storefront sat as it always did, shadowed under cloudy skies, the black metal sign overhead a little rusted now, snow crusted at the base of the steps. The bell above the door jingled faintly as they stepped inside.

Hellhammer and Metalion were already there—leaning against the counter, both looking unusually tense. The air was heavier than it should’ve been. “What?” Euronymous asked flatly, eyes narrowing. They hesitated, and that was all it took. Hellhammer broke it. “Varg’s been arrested.” Silence snapped tight. Euronymous didn’t speak for a second. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. He looked at them like he hadn’t heard right. “For what?” Metalion glanced toward the door. “The church burnings. And some other shit. Cops raided his place early this morning. It’s on the radio.”

Euronymous froze. Then laughed. A single, humorless sound. “That little rat bastard,” he muttered, voice starting low but rising with venom. “He was supposed to keep it quiet.” He slammed his fist down on the counter, rattling the tapes. “He just had to run his mouth. Ruin everything.” You watched him unravel—eyes glassy, pacing now, hand in his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “I should fucking kill him,” he spat, voice shaking. “Make a snuff film out of it. He’s obsessed with me anyway, might as well give him the ending he wants.” Nobody spoke. You stepped forward gently, fingers brushing his wrist. “Let’s just… go. Come on. Let’s go home.” He blinked at you, chest still rising and falling too fast. But after a second, he gave in—letting you tug him toward the door, his body trembling with rage as you made your way back to the car.

Back at her apartment, it was quiet. He’d thrown his coat down, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and was now sitting on the edge of her bed, hunched forward like the fire had drained out of him. You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, heart cracking a little at how small he suddenly looked. “You know…” you said slowly, “you still have clothes here from, like, three visits ago.” He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed. You walked over, toeing off your boots. “Might as well stop pretending you don’t live here most of the time.” He stared at you. And you softened. Sat down beside him. “I’m not saying unpack everything right now. I’m just… saying maybe it’d be easier. If you had your stuff here. If you were here.”

He didn’t speak for a second, just looked at you like you’d handed him something warm after standing in the cold too long. Then he leaned in slowly, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “You really want me here?” You turned your head, kissed the crown of his hair. “I think you already are.” His hand slipped into yours.

It started small.

His toothbrush beside hers in the cup by the sink. His coat on the same hook every night. A pair of his boots, scuffed and slouching, lined up beneath the radiator. She found his old sweaters folded in with her laundry, her books sitting next to his cassettes. There was no announcement, no decision. Just a slow spill of him into every corner of her space. One morning she woke up to find him in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, trying to figure out how her coffee machine worked, hair sticking up wildly as he squinted at the buttons like they were plotting against him. She leaned in the doorway, smiling sleepily. “Need help?” He glanced up, half-proud, half-defensive. “No. I’m a grown man.” “You’re pressing the power button over and over.” “I know.” They drank the terrible coffee anyway, legs tangled together on the couch, him reading aloud pieces of an old black metal zine while she tried not to laugh too loud with her cheek resting on his chest.

He started staying in when she had errands to run—cleaning up a bit, cataloguing tapes, sorting through demo submissions like it was some small ritual. Sometimes he’d light incense, play records from obscure Polish bands, and by the time she came back he’d be on the floor with his hair tied up, scribbling down new riffs in a battered notebook. “You trying to start another band?” she’d ask, nudging his leg with her foot. “No,” he muttered, chewing his pen. “Just… keeping the blade sharp.” They grocery shopped together now. Had a designated “takeout drawer.” She noticed how he always remembered to buy the tea she liked, even though he hated it. He noticed how she moved around the kitchen—quiet, soft, always humming something under her breath—and he’d pause whatever he was doing just to watch.

They made dinner together sometimes, badly. Pasta clumped. Sauces scorched. One night the smoke alarm went off, and she had to open the windows while he flailed around with a dish towel, cursing in Norwegian. They fell asleep on the couch more often than not, movie credits long finished, limbs wrapped up like ivy. Once, she woke up to find him brushing her hair away from her eyes, face soft in the glow of the television. He didn’t realize she was awake. “You’re home now,” he whispered, voice barely there. She closed her eyes again, pretending to still be asleep. The key was already warm from his pocket when he slid it into the lock, the jangle of his keychains—an old guitar pick drilled through and a tiny rusted skull—familiar as a melody.

He didn’t even think about it anymore. He had a key. It hung on the same hook as hers by the door, next to a faded Polaroid of the two of them, blurry and off-center. One of those photos she’d snapped without warning. He’d grumbled about it at the time, but he never took it down. The keychain was his own. No shared neutral plastic or borrowed spare. It was his—because this was his home now, too. The guys started showing up more often. At first it was just Hellhammer, crashing on the floor with beer and chips after late rehearsals. Then Faust would stop by with something he burned onto cassette, tossing it on the table like a peace offering. Metalion brought beer. Occultus brought weird energy and incense. Even Varg had shown up once or twice before the arrest.

And none of them called it her place anymore. They called it theirs—subconsciously at first, and then deliberately. “You at your place?” Hellhammer would ask. “You guys got any ashtrays left at your place?” Metalion teased once, eyes flicking to the mountain of cigarette butts in a cracked dish. It felt strange and easy all at once—Euronymous sprawled out on the couch in socks, her camera on the table beside his latest notebook of song fragments. The guys would show up, argue, laugh, throw things. She’d make tea or lean in the kitchen doorway just watching, until one of them roped her into the chaos. Faust started calling her den eldste—the eldest—even though she wasn’t. Said she kept them all from burning the apartment down. She took it as a compliment.

There were still quiet moments—after the guys left, and it was just the two of them, curled up on the couch, her head on his shoulder while his fingers absently traced her knee through the fabric of her jeans. No words. Just silence. Just breathing. There was no conversation about what this all meant. No formal label. No boxes ticked. But the key was in the lock, the ashtrays were full, the fridge held both his beer and her yogurt, and the records were mixed together on the shelf. They were building something, even if neither of them could quite name it yet.

The studio was warm with laughter and low, layered chords—the guys in that familiar pocket of chaos that somehow worked. She sat on the edge of the battered couch, tapping through her camera, glancing up now and then at Euronymous adjusting pedals, Hellhammer mock-bickering with Occultus, Faust asleep with a cymbal balanced on his chest. Even Varg hadn’t been too loud today. Lurking, yes. But tolerable. She stood, brushing hair from her eyes. “I’m gonna grab a soda.” “Get me one too,” Euronymous called, distracted, chewing on a guitar pick. She shot him a lazy thumbs up and slipped out into the hallway. The vending machine buzzed under the hum of ancient overhead lights. She was scrolling through blurry pictures of Faust mid-scream when— “Still playing house, huh?”

Varg.

“You like playing pretend, huh? Pretending this is your world. That you belong here. You don’t,” he said, his tone low and steady, laced with venom. She didn’t answer, just pressed the button for Euronymous’s usual Coke. “You think this is love or whatever? That he’s really gonna pick you when it comes down to it? He’s building an empire. There’s no room for a soft little thing like you in it.” She turned slowly, eyes like sharpened glass. “You done?” she asked coldly. That did something to him. His face twitched. “You’re just a distraction,” he hissed. “A fucking weakness.” He stepped closer. Too close. “You think you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but all it’ll take is one mistake. One real moment of clarity and he’ll drop you like the joke you are.” "you're just jealous that for as long as you'll live, you were the little fuck that he built from the ground up. you talk a lot for someone who leached and followed Euronymous till he got big enough to play pretend king. you would be nothing without him."

And maybe that was the last thread. His hand lashed out before she saw it coming—crack across her cheekbone, fast and brutal. Her head snapped to the side, the taste of blood blooming in her mouth. Silence. A thundercrack of movement. Euronymous. Slamming into Varg full force. The two hit the wall hard, a crash that echoed through the studio. Øystein didn’t hold back. Not this time. His fist connected once—twice—three times, and Varg’s lip split, a tooth clattering against the floor tiles. “You touch her? You fucking dare lay a hand on her?” Euronymous snarled, pinning Varg by the collar against the wall. “I should gut you right here.”

Varg gasped for breath, choking on blood. The others had come running. Hellhammer grabbed Øystein’s arm. “Dude, Øystein, stop! You’ll kill him—” “That’s the fucking point!” he barked, eyes wild. Attila and Faust looked at her. "fuck" Faust muttered under his breath inspecting the bruise. "Øystein" Hellhammer said gripping his best friends shoulder, which caused him to let go. Varg crumpled to the ground. Euronymous turned, still shaking. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, saw the mark blooming on her cheek. He held her hand and left. Past the others. Past Varg, still gasping on the floor. “Never again,” he said, voice low. “He’ll never fucking breathe near you again.” The door slammed behind them.

The apartment door clicked shut behind them. Neither spoke. Euronymous stood there frozen for a second, staring blankly ahead like if he moved, the world might split apart. She set her keys down quietly. Her face still throbbed—dull and sharp at once—and her fingers instinctively hovered near the bruise blooming under her eye as she looked at it through the mirror near the door. He turned. When he saw it—the purpling mark standing out starkly against her skin—his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His chest rose and fell with shallow, unsteady breaths. For a second, it looked like he might break something.

Then, without a word, he crossed the space and touched her face as gently as he could, his thumb ghosting just near the bruise but never making contact. she just looked up at him, eyes glassy but hard. “It’s okay—” “No,” he snapped, not at her, but the memory. “It’s not fucking okay.” He pulled her into him then, carefully but with purpose, like she might vanish if he didn’t hold her tight enough. She went willingly, pressing her face into his shoulder, his arms caging her in. His shirt smelled like smoke and winter and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

“I should’ve gotten there faster,” he muttered into her hair. “I should’ve stopped him sooner.” “You did,” she whispered. “You were there. That’s what matters.” They stood like that for minutes—silent, warm, a fragile sense of safety building between their breaths. Eventually, he stepped back and took her hand. “Sit,” he said softly, leading her to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub while he rummaged through the cabinet for the first-aid kit. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the ice pack and wrapped it in a cloth before gently pressing it to her cheek. She hissed at the cold, and he flinched with her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes filled with something almost like shame. “You didn’t do it,” she replied, looking at him. “You’re the one who stopped it.”

His gaze dropped to her lap. “Doesn’t change the fact that I let him get that close to you.” There was nothing to say to that, so she just reached for his hand. He let her hold it, thumb brushing her knuckles. Later, in the living room, they sat on the couch in silence. A small lamp cast a warm glow across the room. Neither of them wanted to put music on. The silence was the only thing that felt right. He lit them each a cigarette. She winced slightly when she smiled.

Euronymous looked at her again and swallowed. “He’s going to pay for it. One way or another.” She didn’t argue. She believed him. He shifted closer and rested his hand on her knee. “You still want me here?” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “This is your home too, Øystein.” That was the only answer he needed. Later that night, after tea and dull late-night TV no one was really watching, she found his jacket hung on the back of a chair. Inside the pocket was the ring—his father’s ring. She held it in her hand for a moment, feeling its weight. She didn’t bring it up.

Not yet.

The days that followed were quiet in a way that didn’t feel like peace. Euronymous barely left her side. He brought her coffee in bed, sat next to her when she curled up on the couch, watched her face when she didn’t notice. But inside, his mind spun relentlessly. Every time he looked at the faint bruise on her face, guilt bloomed like rust in his chest. He replayed it in his head: Varg’s words. The flash of her face when it happened. Her flinch. The blood pounding in his ears. Her voice when she told him it was okay. It wasn’t. It never had been. And the more he thought about it, the more one thing looped: If she wasn’t with me… this wouldn’t have happened.

He didn’t want to believe it. But it felt like the truth was souring in his mouth. Hellhammer noticed first. The way Euronymous would stare too long, drift off mid-sentence. The tension in his shoulders never loosening. One night, at the back of Helvete, while reader had stepped out to run a quick errand, Hellhammer lit a cigarette and offered him one. Euronymous took it with a shaking hand. “She’s not safe with me,” he muttered, voice rough. Hellhammer blinked. “What?”

Euronymous exhaled, staring at the wall. “I thought I could… keep her out of this. All of it. But Varg—he fucking hit her, man. Next time, who knows? I drag people into the fire with me.” “You’re not serious.” “I think I should let her go. I cant fucking take this anymore.” He paused. Voice lower. “I dont want her to hate me for real.” What neither of them realized was that she had come back early. Had been walking up the steps when she heard her name through the cracked basement door.

And when she heard him say let her go — the world fell out from beneath her.

She didn’t stay to hear the rest.

The apartment door slammed behind her. She paced once, then twice. Then again. Her chest was caving in. Her lungs were rocks. She stared at the framed photo of them in the kitchen — taken a week after she’d moved him in. His arms around her shoulders. Her laughing. She picked it up and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a hollow crash. The bedroom lamp went next. a couple coffee mugs. His half-finished cigarette pack. The record player. One of his jackets got ripped down from the hook and flung across the couch. The little keychain she bought him, shattered against the floor.

When the rage ran out, all that was left was silence and a pile of broken pieces that still smelled like him.

And then she was gone.

Days passed. Then a week. Then another. Euronymous came home that night and found the place in shambles. Her things were missing. His ring was on the counter. He didn’t sleep that night. Or the one after. Or the one after that. She wasn’t at any of her regular spots. Faust hadn’t seen her. Metalion didn’t know anything. Not even Hellhammer had heard from her. She was just gone. And he felt every inch of the absence. Not in screams. Not in punches. But in silence. The kind that rang in his bones and made his heart hurt in places he didn’t think it could. They searched everywhere. all of the guys.

Flyers didn’t seem like something she’d respond to. Neither did voicemails. So they walked the streets. Cafés. Bookstores. Graveyards. They checked with old friends and music bars and cigarette shops. Euronymous kept circling the same blocks like she’d just appear if he was desperate enough. But she didn’t. Not for a month. The apartment sat heavy and cold, its disarray still untouched. Euronymous couldn’t bring himself to clean it. Her absence clung to the walls like smoke that never aired out. He barely slept. Barely ate. Every knock at Helvete’s door made his stomach turn. Every time someone said her name, he had to force himself not to snap. The guilt had become a person sitting on his chest.

Then, one evening, the door unlocked. He hadn’t changed the key. It creaked open slowly, and there she stood in the threshold. Her hair was messy, wind-tangled. Her makeup was half-smeared across her cheeks, dark under her eyes. Her clothes didn’t match. Her boots were muddy. She looked exhausted. Feral. Beautiful. He stood up from the couch so fast his knees hit the coffee table. “...Y/N.” She didn’t move. “Where the fuck have you been?” His voice cracked down the middle. “I’ve been looking for you—I’ve—Jesus, I thought you were dead—” He was met with straight silence, her eyes glued onto anything avoiding him.

“I heard you, Øystein.” Her voice rose, eyes shining with heat. “That night in the basement. You were gonna let me go. You already did.” “That’s not—” he stepped toward her and she recoiled like he’d raised a hand. His heart shattered. “That’s not what I meant—” “It’s exactly what you meant. You said it to Jan Axel. Like I wouldn’t find out. Like I don’t fucking matter.” “That’s not true—” she rubbed her forehead as she sighed “You told me you loved me. you took me to meet your goddamn parents! Then the second shit got hard, you were ready to vanish. What the fuck does that mean?”

He rubbed his face. “I didn’t say I was leaving because I didn’t love you—I was trying to protect you.” She laughed bitterly, tears spilling now. “No. You were trying to protect yourself.” Silence. “I’m not some porcelain doll you get to fuck up and throw away when things get hard.” Her voice cracked. “You don’t get to break me and then act like it was noble.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked at her, then away. Then back. “I’ve been losing people for years,” he whispered. “Pelle. Then my band. My city. And then you got hurt. And I just—I panicked. I thought… I thought if I left first, it wouldn’t kill me.” “No. You don’t get to hurt someone just because you’re scared.”

“I love you. I didn’t stop.” His voice was raw. “I loved you every goddamn day you were gone. I kept your fucking coffee mug on the shelf and I couldn’t even touch it. I was too afraid it’d still smell like you.” Her eyes filled, but she didn’t move. “I fucked up,” he breathed. “But I didn’t stop loving you.” A long silence. The air in the room was electric. She looked down at her bruised knuckles from god knows what, the pain in her shoulders from wherever she’d been. The silence between them lingered for too long. Her breath was shaky as she looked around the apartment—their apartment. Everything in it was touched by him, shaped by him, wrapped in the version of love that had kept them alive and bleeding at once.

The couch where they first fell asleep together. His chipped black coffee mug by the sink. The ring box buried in her drawer. The lingering smell of his cigarettes and cologne clinging to her curtains.

It was all too much. “I need a break,” she said softly. Euronymous blinked. “From… what? From me?” She nodded. Not because she wanted to. Because she had to. “From all of it. You. Me. Us. This. I just… I need air.”

His hands trembled as he moved to hold her face. “I can’t fix it if I’m not here. please” “That’s just it, Øystein,” she whispered. “You can’t fix it right now. And neither can I.” He swallowed hard. “You want me to leave.” “I want you to pack some of your things and go,” she said, voice fragile. “Not forever. Just... for now. I'll come back to you when the times right” The silence cracked open between them again. His jaw twitched, like he was trying to keep whatever emotion that welled in his throat from spilling over. “But I’m not giving up, please y/n” “I’m not asking you to,” she said, eyes red-rimmed. “I’m asking you to let me breathe.”

“please, Don’t, don't do this” he whispered, shaking his head. She laughed—harsh, tired. “do what?” His lips parted, like he was searching for something to say, some salve, some version of this where they weren’t burning everything to the ground. But it wouldn’t come. It never came. “I gave everything I had left in me for this” she said, gesturing around the room. “for you. And I can’t tell what’s real anymore. If it’s love or chaos or just something to survive through.”He stood now, desperate to reach her, to undo whatever it was he broke—but she took a step back. “Please don’t,” she said, softer now. “Don’t make this harder.”

Silence bloomed again, loud and unbearable. “I need you to pack some of your stuff and go.” His breath hitched. “You’re serious.” “I’m bleeding, Øystein,” she said, barely above a whisper. “And I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.” He opened his mouth to argue, to beg, to fight—but then he saw it. The way her arms were crossed, tight around herself like she was holding her soul in. The faint purple bloom of the bruise under her eye. The exhaustion in her bones. She loved him. He knew that and she was breaking because of it. He nodded, slow and silent. Walked past her, brushing her shoulder like a ghost. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The sound of a duffel bag unzipping. The quiet shuffling of clothes being folded with shaky hands. When he returned, He held the bag in one hand. Looked at her like he wanted to memorize the way she looked in that moment, even if it gutted him. she was sat on the couch, elbows on her knees with her head in her hands “Should I leave the key?” She didn’t answer. He placed it on the kitchen counter. A small clink. Final. “I’ll go,” he said quietly. “But I’ll come back. Even if you don’t want me to.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He left.

CHAP 8: Ashes In The Sink And Vinyl Screams

playing: "bruises" - Ethel Cain unreleased

A month passed.

Burzum was signed. Mayhem rehearsals grew intense. And Helvete became louder, sharper, more dangerous. There was something new in the air — the scent of ash. Of smoke. The sick sweetness of destruction clinging to Euronymous’s clothes when he stumbled into her apartment, hours before dawn. He never told her where he’d been. But she could smell it. The first time, she said nothing. The second time, her hands trembled when she touched his jacket. The third, he smelled like soot and church paint and left her sheets blackened. Helvete was alive with it. Euronymous had been immersed in it all, working late, meeting with Varg, managing tapes, and sketching ideas for the next wave of their "movement."

But when he was with her, none of that followed him in.

They were at his apartment for once — her legs stretched across his the couch, her back leaned into him as they sat curled up on his battered sofa, watching an old horror movie on VHS. The grainy film flickered across the walls in bluish-gray light. She wore his beige turtleneck sweater, far too big on her, the sleeves covering her hands, and a pair of black jeans cuffed at the ankle. Her hair was a little messy from where she'd tugged it back. He thought she looked better than anything on the screen. The two of them laughed at the awful acting, his head tilted down toward hers. No tension, no shadows. Just the warmth of a shared blanket and a bad movie.

Then the phone rang.

Euronymous groaned, trying to shift — but she leaned more of her weight onto him, grinning into his shoulder. they both laughed, his eyes narrowing at the ringing phone across the room behind his glasses. She giggled. “Okay, asshole,” he added under his breath with a smirk, carefully untangling himself and slipping out from under her. He kissed her forehead on the way up — a brief, automatic gesture — and padded over to pick up the receiver, still chuckling as he answered. “Yeah, what?” His tone shifted as soon as he heard the voice on the other end.

Varg.

She didn’t hear everything — just his half of the conversation, the way his posture subtly stiffened. She sat up, brushing her hair back, watching him quietly. “You want to what?” he asked, voice flatter now. A pause. He turned away from her slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think going public is smart? Now?” Another pause. His jaw tightened. “No, I’m not scared,” he said calmly, but there was an edge underneath. “But maybe I’m the only one here who’s actually thinking. you could put the black circle in shit as well as Faust for what he'd done.” it was silent for a while. "then why did you call me?"

He hung up with a quiet click, slower than usual. Not a slam, not a muttered curse. Just... stillness. The kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. When he turned back to her, something in his expression had shifted. Not angry. Not sad. Just… distant in a way that wasn’t physical. “Was that Varg?” she asked, adjusting the sweater on her arms as she sat upright on the couch. He nodded. “Yeah.” “What did he want?” Euronymous ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his side. “He wants to go public. With the church burnings.” Her breath caught. She blinked. “Wait — what?” He shrugged, too casual for her liking. “He thinks it’s time. He says it’ll shake people awake. Make them realize black metal isn’t just a genre. Says we need to make a real statement, that It’s a war.”

“A war,” she repeated flatly, staring at him. “You’re not actually considering that, are you?” He didn’t answer, but that silence was the answer. She stood up from the couch, wrapping her arms around herself. “You’re not a soldier, Øystein. You’re not a revolutionary. You run a record store. You scream about Satan. And now you're burning down churches with Varg like it’s some twisted rite of passage?” That hit. His face darkened. “I’m not just some kid playing dress-up. This is bigger than the shop. Bigger than you. You wouldn’t understand—” “Because I did know about Mayhem or Black metal before I met you?” she snapped. “Because I wasn’t in love with some made-up version of ‘black metal purity’? Sorry I liked you for who you were underneath all the bullshit — the guy who gets coffee stains on his journal because he somewhat a klutz, who forgets to replace his guitar strings for weeks and wonders why his guitar sounds like shit, who actually laughs and loves when he’s not trying so hard to be a legend.”

His mouth opened, then shut again. For a second, he looked almost heartbroken. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice dropping. “This—this is all I have. Mayhem, Helvete, the scene — it’s the only thing that means something. It’s the only thing that ever did.” She stepped toward him, her hands shaking now. “You have me, Øystein. You had me. And I’m not going to stand by while you destroy yourself just to impress Varg and a bunch of teenage boys in fucking face paint. You’re turning into exactly what you said you hated — a poser. A fake revolutionary who thinks fire and murder are the only way to make a point. You sound just like him.” He flinched, That pulled a reaction. His jaw clenched, and he stepped forward. and for a moment, she thought he might cry. But instead, he laughed — a bitter, cold sound. “Don’t compare me to him. I’m the one who built this. I gave him a platform, A voice!" “And now you’re letting him lead it.” Her voice cracked with disbelief.

“You’re letting a delusional narcissist with a fucked savior complex dictate what this all means. You think that makes you real? That makes you brave? I saw you. Not the band. Not the hype. You, Øystein. and I think you’re losing who you are.” She gulped, wrapping her arms around herself "You think you’re better than me? Sitting there in my clothes, sleeping in my arms, pretending like you’re not just as fucked up as the rest of us? You never talk about your past — you act like you’re above all this, but you’re not. you’re just hiding. Behind film, behind photos, behind me.”

She stared at him for a long time. Something inside her twisted, hard. “You want to talk about hiding?” she said, her voice flat and steady. His expression shifted — wary, curious, unsure. “I was eight. My dad was an addict. My mom was working late, and I was in the bath. He OD’d in the hallway. Right outside the door. I stepped out in my towel and found him there — eyes open, mouth blue. I sat next to him for hours, freezing, until my mom came home and found me, shaking so hard I couldn’t speak. That’s why I left, came here” she added, softer now. “That’s why she took me far away and tried to rebuild something. And then she… you know the rest.”

She continued, voice cracking but rising. “I came here because I didn’t want to rot in that house. I came here because I needed to be anywhere but there. And you—you made me feel like I had a place again. But now all I see is you pulling away from everything that made you human. From me. You’re not the only one who’s lost people,” she whispered. “But you don’t see me burning the world to prove it.” She swallowed hard. Her chest hurt. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. “I can’t watch you set fire to the world and call it art,” she whispered.

He stood, quiet and cold. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to do,” he muttered. “No,” she said, tears stinging her eyes now, “I understand exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to out-suffer everyone. Like if you burn brighter, scream louder, people will think you matter more.” He glared at her, face raw. “And you? What are you doing here, really? Playing house with the guy who sells misery in his little satanic store? You think this is going to end any differently than everything else in your life?” She flinched like he’d struck her. Something between them shattered. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… broke. She bit the inside of her cheek nodding, she slipped his sweater off, fixing her shirt as She grabbed her coat. When she left, she didn’t say anything at all.

Not even goodbye.

He didn’t move for a long time after the door closed. Didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t pace. Didn’t scream or smash anything. Just stood there, her weight gone from the sweater, the scent of her tea still lingering in the air. The silence swallowed him. And it wasn’t comforting. He sat down on the couch where they'd fallen asleep together so many times. The TV still hummed with the paused movie they hadn’t finished. He picked up his sweater and held it in his lap, staring at the muted images on the screen. His head was buzzing with the memory of her voice — the way it cracked when she told him about her father. The way she looked at him like she still believed in him, even while walking away.

What the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t sure if he was more furious with her for saying the things he hadn’t wanted to admit… or with himself for knowing she was right. The phone rung again. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the tape deck beside the TV — the one they’d used to play demos. He pulled out a worn cassette of old rehearsals with Pelle. Sat back. And pressed play. Dead's voice flooded the room. Echoing. Hollow. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. And for the first time in a long, long time, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know if he meant it for Pelle… or for her.

Maybe both

The night air stung more than usual. Not just from the cold. But from the hollow ache that spread in her chest like frostbite. Her boots echoed sharply on the wet pavement, and every step away from his apartment felt both too heavy and not far enough. She didn’t go home right away. Instead, she wandered — the way she did after she found her mother died, like if she just kept walking long enough, the grief would dissolve in her wake. When she did finally unlock her apartment, it felt foreign. Like a film set once filled with warmth now abandoned between scenes. She didn’t cry right away. Instead, she went to the camera still sitting on her desk, the one he'd asked about. The one he said she should use to take his picture.

She turned it on. Flipped through the images. There he was — blurry, sharp, grinning, frowning. Her Øystein. Staring into the lens like he saw her and didn’t mind being seen back. She set it down gently. Then curled up in the chair with one of his records spinning quietly — something older, rawer, a Vinyl he had made just for her. His voice distant, distorted. And that’s when she broke. Silent, breathless tears. The kind that hurt worse than screaming. Because even with everything they’d said… she still loved him. And it terrified her.

She doesn't go back to Helvete. The thought of seeing him — standing behind the counter where they once shared quiet, unspoken moments — feels like picking at a wound too fresh to touch. So she starts walking different routes. Skips the side of town with the red door and blacked-out windows. Trades leather for layers. Trades loud for silence. The apartment is too quiet now. She leaves the radio on low just to fill the space, flipping between stations even though none of it feels right. Her camera stays untouched on the desk, a film roll still inside with photos she can’t bring herself to develop.

Instead, she takes to writing little things on scrap paper — memories she has of him. The way he looked when he first took his boots off at her door. The weird way he poured tea. How his voice dropped an octave when he talked about music. How he’d sometimes hum under his breath without realizing. She stuffs the scraps into a shoebox beneath her bed, telling herself it’s not about keeping him close. But it is. Late at night, she thinks about that last fight. Rewinds it over and over. The look in his eyes when she told him about her father. The tension in his jaw. The way his voice broke for just a second when he shouted, "This—this is all I have. Mayhem, Helvete, the scene — it’s the only thing that means something. It’s the only thing that ever did."

She wants to hate him.

But she can’t.

He's short-tempered at the store. Snaps at Faust for breathing too loud. Doesn’t even look up when customers come in unless they ask for black metal tapes. Even then, he gives them the coldest version of himself. He hasn't touched his guitar in a week. Every time he thinks about picking it up, he sees her — sitting cross-legged in front of him, her eyes focused and set on him, listening like his music meant something beyond blood and fire. The flat is a wreck. Dishes stack up. Takeout containers litter the counter. But he doesn’t care. The smell of burnt coffee clings to everything. He still wears the beige turtleneck sweater — the one she stretched out a little at the sleeves. It's comfort now. Ghost-like.

When Varg shows up unannounced, talking about more burnings and press and power, Øystein just stares at him like he's underwater. Muted. Faint. “You’re distracted,” Varg says. He doesn’t respond. Because distracted isn’t the word. He's haunted. He’s haunted by the way she made even the silence feel warm. The way her touch didn’t feel like a weakness, but like armor. He plays the demo she liked on repeat some nights. The one he never finished. The one she said sounded “like snowfall if it could bleed.” He doesn't know how to fix it. He just knows she was the only thing in his life not soaked in performance or pretense. And he’s starting to realize that if he lets her go, he might lose whatever is left of who he really is.

Oslo in late autumn. Cold enough to make your fingertips numb, wet enough that the city feels smeared and blurred at the edges. She’s got her hood up, headphones in, camera slung around her neck again — her first time out shooting in weeks. She hadn’t meant to walk this far, hadn’t planned to end up on this street. But she sees him before he sees her. He’s standing beneath the awning of a coffee place two blocks from Helvete — just a cafe with a hand-painted sign and stacks of vinyl in the window. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers, a cup of black coffee in the other, wearing that same beige turtleneck under a battered leather jacket.

She almost turns around. Almost pretends not to notice. But then he turns — and their eyes lock. The breath catches in both their throats. It’s only a second, maybe two, but it stretches wide like a chasm. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. She tugs her headphones down slowly. “…Hey,” she says, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. He stares for a second longer. Then “Hey.” It’s awkward. It’s awful. It’s everything. They both laugh a little — not because it’s funny, but because what else can you do when the world cracks open like this? “You, uh… been taking photos again?” he asks, nodding to the camera like it’s some fragile piece of proof that she’s still herself.

She shrugs. “Trying. You look the same.” “So do you.” They both know it’s a lie. They both look tired. Thinner around the eyes. Grayer at the edges. “You wanna… come in for a minute?” he asks, gesturing to the record store behind him. She hesitates. The rain’s coming down harder now, cold seeping into her sleeves. “Okay.” They duck inside. It smells like coffee and vinyl and old wood. The kind of place where time pauses. There’s nobody else inside but the bored kid behind the counter. They sit down in a booth in the back, near the jazz section. Close, but not touching. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he says after a long silence. “Have you?” “Yeah.” “Why didn’t you?” He swallows hard. Looks at her. Really looks. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. After what I said. After… all of it.”

She bites her lip. Looks down at her hands. After a while of silence filled by the rain drops outside “I didn’t mean to tell you about my dad like that. I didn’t mean for it to be… ammo.” His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I never saw it like that. I just… I didn’t know what to do with something that real. I’m not used to… real. I mean I am from you but just.... not in like that” Silence again. The air is heavy with it. “I missed you,” he says softly, the truth slipping out before he can stop it. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for her but doesn’t trust himself to. “I think I forgot how to breathe when you left.” And just like that, the distance between them doesn’t feel so wide anymore.

They don’t talk for a few moments.

Just sit there listening to the rain drum against the windows and the occasional scratch of a record someone forgot to flip. Her fingers are resting near his on the bench, not quite touching, and it drives him a little mad. Finally, she whispers, “You said you forgot how to breathe when I left.” He turns to her, heart skipping a beat. “I meant it.”There’s a tremble to her voice when she says, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not for a while.” He leans back against the booth, legs stretched out, looking like he hasn’t slept properly in days. There’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “You were right, you know,” he says eventually. “About Varg. About me trying to be something I’m not. A revolutionary. A legend. Whatever the hell it is I thought I was doing.”She tilts her head, watching him carefully. “Why did you?”

He shrugs, the leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought if I made something big enough — loud enough — it would drown out everything else.” “Like what?” “Like the quiet. Like being alone.” He pauses. “Like Pelle.” She nods slowly. “I know that kind of noise.” His eyes meet hers again. “I hated myself for hurting you.” “I hated you for a little while,” she replies, gently. “And then I hated myself more.” He flinches. She notices, but doesn’t pull back. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” she says after a beat. “But I was scared. I didn’t want to watch you disappear. Not like them. Not like my mom. Not like my dad. I couldn’t do it again.” “You won’t,” he says quietly. “I’m still here.”

They look at each other. Really look. That same gaze from her balcony, from the cigarette shared on the carpet, from the morning after they first fell asleep on her bed. It’s all still there. Every quiet second of it. She leans in slightly, voice barely a breath “I want you to be. Still here, I mean.” “I am.” They sit in that for a while — in the sharp ache of honesty. He pulls off one of his rings and starts to fidget with it nervously, and she watches the way his fingers shake just slightly. “I’ve got stuff I need to fix,” he admits. “The music, the band. Me.” She nods. “Me too.” “But maybe I don’t want to do it without you,” he adds. That lands between them like a match in dry grass. She swallows. “I don’t know if I’m ready for everything to be okay again.” “I’m not asking for okay,” he says. “I’m just asking for… a second chance.” Her lips twitch — almost a smile, but it doesn’t quite make it there. Still, she shifts closer, their knees brushing now.

“Come on,” she says softly, standing. “Walk me to the bridge.” He follows her out, back into the cold, and they walk side by side under one shared umbrella, the rain still coming down. Their hands brush once. Then again. And then, slowly, fingers laced, like they were never meant to let go in the first place.

The streets are slick underfoot, reflecting the amber streetlights in long, trembling streaks. She doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk — not even when the wind picks up and tugs at the edges of her coat, or when her boots slip slightly on the damp pavement and he catches her with a soft laugh. There’s something gentle in the silence between them now. Tired, maybe, but no longer sharp. The worst has already spilled between them like blood in water. All that’s left is what they do with it. When they reach the bridge, she slows. It's quiet here — only the sound of water rushing below and the distant echo of some dog barking in the suburbs. The sky is heavy and bruised, but clear enough that a few stars peek through.

He rests his elbows on the cold iron railing, hands still fidgeting, that same silver ring between his fingers. She watches him for a moment before joining him. “You always come here?” “Sometimes.” He turns the ring over once more in his hand. “It’s stupid.” “What is?” “This place. I mean, not stupid. Just… predictable. Overdramatic.” She leans against the rail beside him. “Maybe. But it’s yours.” He looks over at her, then down at the ring again. “I’ve had this since I was sixteen. It’s cheap. I think I stole it from a flea market. But I’ve always kept it. Like… I don’t know. A dumb reminder that I exist.” She reaches out, brushing her fingers along his wrist.

He holds the ring out to her, palm open. She blinks. “What’s this?” “I want you to have it.” She stares at it for a second. “Why?” “Because you remind me I exist. Not Euronymous. Just… me.” Her throat tightens. He smiles, just barely. “Besides, you’ve always worn rings that are obviously too big” He nods towards the three rings she was already wearing. She laughs, soft and a little wet around the edges. Then takes the ring and slips it onto her middle finger. It’s a little too big. It doesn’t matter.