#heavar

Grace, who had been curled up nearby, perked up, interest widened her pupils. Lazily, she pounced on the scrap like it was prey, nudging it forward with a paw before leaping after it with wild kitten theatrics.

Heahmund’s eyes lingered on her for a second, grateful for the absurd calm of a creature who expected nothing more than something to chase. Then he turned his attention back to the listings in his hand, purposefully staying calm.

"What about this one here?" he asked, holding out another flyer with a hopeful tone, his finger tapping on the image of a sleek, well-lit flat. "It's a bit further from the city center, but it has the large balcony you said you wanted."

"It’s way too expensive," came Ivar’s immediate reply after just one short look.

"It’s not. We can afford it easily."

"Only if you pay more than your fair share. I don’t want that."

"You’re a student with no income. Should we look for a tree house, then?" Heahmund smiled slightly, trying to keep the tension light.

Ivar rolled his eyes, the gesture as loud as a groan. "Don’t be stupid."

"Then tell me, love. According to your logic, what should we be looking for?"

"I can pay my part of the rent," Ivar muttered, crossing his arms. "I pay my share here, too."

"Your parents do."

"Don’t fact-check me!"

The room tensed. Heahmund had to bite back a chuckle - he knew better than to let it slip now. Ivar wouldn’t see the humor, not when he was this coiled up. He’d take it as mockery, wouldn’t see how plainly the stubbornness was written all over him. He was in a defensive mode - his default setting when his feelings didn’t match his logic.

They were arguing. Again. Recently, it felt like they couldn’t have one productive conversation about their new home without it spiraling into this. Frustration. Mistrust. Silence followed by snapbacks.

The apartment search, which had started with cautious optimism, had devolved into a minefield. Every suggestion Heahmund made was deflected. Every viable flat was turned down. And though neither of them had extravagant wishes, nothing seemed right. Mostly, Ivar didn’t seem convinced by anything.

Heahmund slowly counted to three in his head before he reached over to grab Ivar’s hand, gently, but with intent. He shifted closer on the couch until their legs touched, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to the curve of Ivar’s neck, just below the ear. That spot usually softened him. Today, Ivar only stiffened.

"Can I ask you something?" Heahmund murmured, lips still brushing skin. "But you have to promise to answer honestly."

A low grunt was the only answer he got.

"I’ll take that as a yes," Heahmund said, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth. When Ivar began to turn his face away, Heahmund gently caught his chin, guiding it back just enough for their eyes to meet. "We don’t have to make a decision now if it’s too much, but let us talk about one thing, alright?"

Again, Ivar did not express his opinion verbally; instead, he gave a small, grudging nod. 

Heahmund recognized it for what it was - a signal that Ivar was at least trying. He resisted the urge to sigh. This was familiar terrain. There were days when he felt more like a crisis manager than a boyfriend, but at least now, after a few joint therapy sessions, he knew the terrain better. He knew when to push and when to gently coax the door open, which Ivar didn’t always realize he was about to close.

"So, are you capable of answering a question?"

"I’m not retarded," Ivar snapped, immediate and sharp, eyes narrowing, his body still stiff, alerted.

Heahmund didn’t flinch, holding his ground. "I know. And you know that’s not what I was implying." He squeezed Ivar’s hand again, not just to touch him, but to anchor him, quiet, intentional contact that said I'm here. With you. Not against you. His thumb moved in slow circles across Ivar’s skin, the rhythm steady and calm, like a heartbeat passing through fingertips.

Ivar looked away but didn’t withdraw his hand. His jaw was still tight, his spine taut as a wire, but Heahmund could feel the subtle shift, the way Ivar’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the smallest sag in posture that betrayed exhaustion more than anger. His fingers no longer clawed at the torn paper. Instead, they stilled, uncertain, trembling faintly. Then, slowly, almost shyly, Ivar turned his hand in Heahmund’s palm, until their fingers aligned and laced together.

Heahmund nuzzled his nose against Ivar’s neck, kissing the spot right after. Once, this moment would’ve tipped. Ivar’s sudden tension, the deflective sarcasm, the silent push-away. Before therapy, before their break, this would have been the point at which everything would have gotten out of hand, at which shouting would no longer be far away, threats of violence hanging in the doom-filled air.

But not today.

"I’m not looking for a fight," Heahmund said calmly, voice quiet but steady. "I’m trying to understand. For me, it feels like you’re looking for faults in every apartment, because you’re not ready to leave this one."

"I just don’t like the options. It’s as simple as that." Ivar shifted, trying to pull his hand free, fingers twitching with the impulse to retreat. But Heahmund’s grip tightened, gentle but unwavering. A silent message passed between their palms: You don’t get to run this time.

"But none of them? Not even one?" Heahmund tilted his head slightly, studying Ivar’s profile. "You said yourself last week that the last one was almost ideal."

"And? I changed my mind later. Isn't that allowed?"

Heahmund paused for a second, pondering about the best way to proceed so as not to pour fuel into a growing fire. "Of course it’s allowed," he said, nodding. "But... what changed?"

Ivar didn’t answer.

Heahmund waited. That too was something he’d learned by now - not to fill silence out of discomfort, not to rescue Ivar from sitting with it. Eventually, Ivar glanced up, annoyed by the quiet, maybe, or by the patience that somehow irritated him more than confrontation ever did.

"Maybe I don’t want to move," Ivar finally muttered, shrugging with exaggerated indifference. "Go ahead, call me selfish. Or dramatic. Or whatever fits today."

Heahmund let out a quiet sigh, then leaned in again to place a soft kiss on Ivar’s head. "Thank you for being honest."

"That’s it? You’re not going to tell me I’m being unreasonable?" Ivar asked, irritation layering in his voice.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don’t think you are."

Heahmund squeezed Ivar’s hand tenderly and wrapped his other arm around his waist, drawing him in until Ivar was nestled against his chest. He would have preferred to face him directly, to read every shift in expression, but he knew better by now - eye contact would only make Ivar feel cornered. So he let him have his little cave.

"I understand that you’re scared. And I know you hate change," Heahmund said, his fingers stroking slow, calming lines across Ivar’s stomach. "I know this apartment feels like a part of us to you. "But moving won’t undo what makes us us. It just means we’re writing the next chapter somewhere else, together, still."

He hesitated for a moment, then added quietly, "I need that new chapter, Ivar. Not because I want to forget what this place meant to us. There were good things here. Really good ones. I treasure those memories too, believe me." His smile was soft and brief, fond as those moments replayed in his mind like the closing credits of a film. But his smile faded quickly, making room for a more serious expression.

"But they’re not the only things this place holds. It also holds everything we didn’t know how to handle back then. Every fight. Every silence. I still see the dents and cracks in the walls from the nights things boiled over. And every time I unlock the front door, I remember how it felt to stand there before I left. How empty I  was at that moment, knowing I couldn’t fix us."

As the words settled between them, Heahmund pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Ivar’s head, lingering just a heartbeat longer than usual. His hand slid upward from Ivar’s stomach, fingertips brushing over ribs, before wrapping around him fully, his arm settling gently across Ivar’s shoulders, coming to rest just beneath his collarbones. His elbow rested on Ivar’s chest, the side of his wrist tenderly grazing his throat. 

Ivar stayed quiet, body still pressed to Heahmund’s chest, breathing slowly and even. He reached for the arm looped around him and laid his hand over it. His fingers didn’t push away, didn’t resist. Instead, they moved lightly over Heahmund’s forearm, tracing the faint hairs, the warmth of his skin.

"I don’t want the new place to be something you just agree to because I pushed for it. I want it to be yours, too. A space you actually like. Somewhere you’ll want to come home to, not just because I’m there, but because it feels right to you, too." Heahmund continued as Ivar stayed quiet. "That’s why I need your input. What matters to you?  What would make you feel comfortable, safe…maybe even excited? And when your opinion shifts, when something that seemed okay suddenly doesn’t feel right anymore, I want you to tell me. I just need to know where your head is at, so I can make the right suggestions. I know the idea of moving is still hard. for you, love. I’m not asking you to love it overnight. But I want to go through this process with you. Not alone. Not dragging you behind me."

Heahmund paused, waiting to see if Ivar would like to say something, but he stayed quiet. His fingers, though, betrayed him. Restless, they kept tugging gently at the fine hairs on Heahmund’s arm, twisting them in slow, uneven motions.

"I know it’s a lot to ask. But please…try. For me."

Ivar listened, jaw tight. Nothing Heahmund said sounded unreasonable. If anything, it made perfect sense. He wanted to give him what he asked for, he really did. And he knew he should be grateful that Heahmund still wanted this. Wanted him. That he kept being patient and kind, even now, even when Ivar was being difficult, unable to hold onto the openness he’d promised.

The thought tightened something in his chest. Guilt rose quietly, shame curling in behind it. He let out a long breath, then rubbed along his jawline, fingers pressing hard - as if he could force the tension out by sheer force.

"I feel like I’m failing you again," Ivar muttered, finally breaking his stubborn silence, his voice rough at the edges.

"You’re not," Heahmund replied immediately, his arm tightening slightly around Ivar.

"You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better."

"I’m not saying it to make you feel better," Heahmund said. "I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re still here. Still letting me in, even when it’s hard. That’s not failure, Ivar. That’s you trying. And that’s enough."

Ivar let out a dry, humorless laugh. Sharp and brief - quick, instinctive, like he couldn’t help but brush the words off.

"Yeah. Trying. Great." He shook his head faintly. "I’m sure that counts for something in the grand competition of not being a total mess," he mumbled, sarcasm covering the fragile crack beneath.

Heahmund didn’t react with words right away. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a slow, steady kiss to the back of Ivar’s neck, letting his lips rest there for a moment. "Let me remind you that I don’t need a picture-perfect Ivar," he said softly after a few moments, whispering against damp skin. "I don’t expect you to flip a switch and be happy all the time about everything...although I would wish for nothing more than for you to be happy."

Ivar shifted, uncomfortable, and Heahmund responded by softening his embrace. "But are you not mad? That I’m…like this? That I can’t just… be normal about it?"

Heahmund shook his head, voice remaining calm and steady. "Your feelings, no matter how overwhelming, have a right to exist. You’re not wrong for feeling them. I just don’t want you to carry them alone."

Ivar didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to. Instead, he turned around, slow and a little clumsy in the movement, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for comfort and was doing it anyway. Heahmund understood immediately and opened his arms without hesitation, shifting just enough to give Ivar the space to curl in.

Immediately, Ivar folded into him without resistance, his body fitting into the familiar lines of Heahmund’s like muscle memory. He pressed his face into the crook of Heahmund’s neck, nose brushing the warm skin there, breathing in deeply. There was something familiar woven into Heahmund’s scent - skin, laundry soap, the faintest trace of aftershave. But also something that wasn’t so easily named. Something grounding. Safe. Something that always made Ivar’s shoulders drop, his jaw loosen, his heartbeat slow down just a little.

"I love you," Ivar whispered against warm skin, letting the words sink in as he pressed a soft kiss there, more instinct than intention.

Heahmund tightened his new embrace, one arm around Ivar’s shoulders, the other at his lower back, holding him close, like something precious.

"And I love you."

And that, more than any answer, was enough for now.

ლლლლლლლლლლლლ

The apartment felt empty now.

Not in the way people often said when the furniture was gone, but in that strange, disorienting way a place changes once it no longer holds your life. The walls were still the same off-white, the air still carried a trace of citrus and old wood. But the warmth was gone, like it had quietly packed itself into boxes and followed them to the new address, leaving only cool shadows behind.

Heahmund stood at the threshold to the living room, keys idle in his grip, staring into the quiet that had settled over the room like dust. No echo of footsteps, no hum of routine. Just stillness. As if even the apartment itself had accepted it was time to let go.

"You’re not crying, are you?" Ivar’s voice came from behind, teasing, but soft-edged.

Heahmund didn’t turn, just let out a breath of a laugh. "Would it make you feel better if I were?"

Ivar stepped up beside him, shoulder brushing his. Instinctively, Heahmund’s arm looped around his waist, and just as naturally, Ivar rested his head against his shoulder.

"Maybe. I could use the leverage. Imagine what I could achieve with a photo like that."

They shared a quick laugh, one that didn’t carry any heavy weight behind it. Not one that had been used too often in the past to soften mood swings. This one felt like familiarity, something easy and light. Silence settled over them again as they stood together, eyes drifting across the space that had once been theirs. A space that had held sharp words and long nights, laughter and sorrow. There were echoes here - of arguments and apologies, of first steps toward healing and nights spent curled up to each other, some in tense silence, some filled with moans and soft confessions of love.

This apartment had been a greenhouse for their relationship, fragile growth beneath harsh conditions. A sanctuary. A war zone. A home. Now, stripped to its bones, it felt small. Not in size, but in story. Its role was complete. 

"Are you alright?" Heahmund asked eventually, voice low, glancing sideways as Ivar raised his head to look at him.

After their last serious conversation, the apartment hunt had gone faster than Heahmund would’ve thought possible. Not because Ivar had changed completely overnight - he hadn’t. But something had shifted nonetheless, and when a too-good-to-be-true listing had appeared - open layout, huge rooftop terrace, tall windows, tucked quietly outside the city - Ivar had been the one to nudge Heahmund’s phone toward him, murmuring, "This one doesn’t look too awful."

From there, things had moved quickly. And now they had a place with enough space to grow new things, enough space to build a happy future together, and - according to Ivar - enough room for ten more cats. But sometimes, in the quiet between tasks, Heahmund caught himself worrying, watching Ivar a little too closely, looking for cracks. Wondering if he'd pushed too soon. If Ivar had only gone along to keep the peace, without having had the space to truly make peace with it himself.

"Yeah." Ivar answered, smiling at Heahmund. "It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would."

The truth was, it had hurt at the beginning.

The first empty boxes had felt like monsters - open-mouthed and greedy, ready to swallow everything familiar, everything that felt like his. He’d stared at them and felt the quiet panic rise, convinced that packing meant losing, that the life he’d carefully pieced together would vanish into cardboard and tape.

But that mood, dramatic and raw, had shifted quicker than he'd expected. Not because he suddenly loved the idea of change, but because something about the change brought Heahmund to life in a way Ivar hadn’t seen in a long time.

They’d packed together, far more slowly than their timeline allowed, constantly distracted by shared memories, pausing to argue mock-seriously over what to keep and what to throw away, interrupting themselves with dumb jokes or sudden kisses.

With every box sealed, Heahmund had grown lighter. Not just emotionally, but physically too, looser in his movements, freer in his words. There was a new rhythm in his steps, an ease in his voice. More and more, Ivar had begun to see the smiles, real ones. Not the polite, practiced kind. Not the worn-out smiles Heahmund gave when trying to be strong for both of them. These were honest, whole-body smiles, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Ivar’s chest tighten with the feeling of love and attraction.

Shared moments within those last weeks instantly replayed in Ivar’s mind like bright, fleeting reels, as he thought about the reason why his heart was not too heavy right now.

Heahmund dancing barefoot in the hallway of the new flat while reorganizing bookshelves, swaying awkwardly to music he claimed to hate. The way he’d snuck up behind him mid-painting, streaking blue paint across his cheek, laughing like a kid who’d just broken a rule on purpose. The sound of his giggle, bubbling up out of nowhere. The glint in his eyes when they made plans for the new place - not careful, cautious plans, but excited ones.

Ivar had always loved Heahmund’s measured calm, his unwavering presence, the adultness of him. Heahmund had always been the stable one. The voice of reason. The anchor when his moods turned jagged and unkind. That strength had made him feel safe. 

But this lighter Heahmund, the one who teased and grinned and chased him down a hallway with paint on his nose, this version had made him fall in love with him all over again. Madly.

And for that alone, Ivar would’ve packed a thousand boxes more.

The old place didn’t matter anymore.

Because what he was gaining, what they were becoming again, meant so much more to him.

"I'm glad to hear that," Heahmund said, slowly breaking free from their rigidity to finally take the last necessary step.

Heahmund’s expression softened as he leaned in to kiss Ivar, saying goodbye to their apartment with gestures full of affection this time, a lightness in his heart that stood in big contrast to the time almost two years ago. Back then, he had felt a different kind of weight in his chest. Leaving had felt like cutting something off. An arm. A future. He had been sure never to come back.

But this, this was different. Now he was leaving with something.

With someone.

"You know," Ivar said, nudging Heahmund lightly with an elbow, "if we’d moved when you first wanted to, our new home wouldn’t even have been on the market back then."

"So your stalling was actually strategy?" Heahmund asked, amused.

"I like to think of it as fate using my resistance as a tactical delay."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re welcome."

The teasing didn’t feel like covering anymore. It wasn’t hiding tension. It was light. Easy. Honest.

Heahmund turned his head slightly, eyes fond as he got serious again. "You did good."

Ivar looked at him sidelong, something flickering behind his gaze that he didn’t quite let surface. But his voice was soft when he answered. "So did you - and now let’s go before you actually start to cry. Grace is waiting."

Again, Heahmund’s mouth switched into a smile. "She’s surely sunbathing on the terrace, not missing anyone right now."

"I bet she is, like the damn queen she is. She settled in quite quickly, right? But still, she won’t sit with me even though I’m the one with all the best snacks."

"She did brush against your leg last night."

"She tripped."

"She’s warming up," Heahmund said gently.

Ivar gave a skeptical shrug, but didn’t argue any further; instead, he nudged Heahmund toward the exit, not wanting to dwell any longer within those empty walls. 

ლლლლლლლლლლლლ

The sun cast a warm, golden haze over the rooftop terrace, settling on the cushions of outdoor chairs and the freshly planted herbs along the railing - a newfound hobby of Heahmund’s, much to Ivar’s amusement. The grill sizzled quietly in the background, while the terrace was already buzzing with laughter and conversation. Ivar’s family had nearly all arrived, filling the space with their usual noisy presence.

Everyone had brought something, and the large table they had bought just two days ago was already put to its first serious test, loaded with drinks, snacks, and bowls full of overly ambitious side dishes.

This barbeque was a way of saying thank you, because, as much as the brothers liked to complain on any other given day, when it had mattered, when Ivar and Heahmund had asked for help during the move, they’d all shown up. Even Sigurd. No eye-rolls, no convenient excuses. Just steady hands, car trunks full of boxes, and more banter than actual muscle.

Heahmund leaned against the railing, a cold glass of lemonade in hand, watching Ivar soak up the attention from his family like a cat the sunlight. He was joking with Ubbe, stealing chips from Hvitserk’s plate while balancing a bowl of salad in the other. His cheeks were flushed with warmth and ease, his entire posture relaxed. He radiated that unique blend of mischief and peace, and Heahmund couldn’t look away, soaking up the familiar chaos that almost always came with the Lothbroks.

He loved Ivar’s family like his own. He always had. He had never just been tolerated; he had been included. Loud dinners. Long movie nights. Backyard fire pits that went on well into the night. For someone whose own family was scattered - some close, some not, and most emotionally reserved - their warmth and bond had healed something in him he hadn’t even known was broken.

Which had only made leaving them all the harder.

He hadn’t just walked away from Ivar back then. He’d walked away from them, too. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just a single, final message to Ubbe and then silence.

So when they invited not just Ivar, but him as well, to their monthly dinner about two weeks after his return, his first instinct had been to decline. To stay quiet. To avoid the discomfort he knew would come with seeing them again. He’d nearly convinced himself that skipping it would be easier, that there would be other chances, way later.

But in the end, he had gone. Because deep down, he knew putting it off would only stretch the distance further. He couldn’t avoid Ivar’s family forever. And truthfully, he didn’t want to. Still, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so nervous. The drive over had been quiet, his thoughts loud. Were hugs too much now, after once being second nature? Was a handshake too impersonal, after everything they’d shared?

As expected, the first interactions had been stiff, awkward even. The small talk, stilted. Eyes had lingered too long on him for his liking, filled with quiet curiosity, and beneath it all simmered questions nobody dared to ask aloud. But they were there, unmistakable: Are you staying this time? Are you going to break him again?

Heahmund couldn’t blame them, though.

But thankfully, the natural warmth of Ivar’s family had softened the edges quickly. The initial tension ebbed within the first hour, pushed aside by familiarity, humor, and shared history. Those watchful glances turned kind again. And later, on the Lothbroks’ spacious balcony, comfortably decorated by Aslaug herself, there had been honest conversations. One with Ubbe. One with Ivar’s mother. Not planned. Not forced. Just…overdue.

That same night, Heahmund had stood alone outside for a while, the garden lights below casting soft halos against the dark. His eyes had stung, though no tears had fallen. The weight in his chest had felt different then, not heavy with shame, but full of something quieter. Relief, mostly.  Relief of not having been cast as the villain. That they hadn’t reduced him to the man who left, that he hadn’t been treated like a mistake they had no choice but to tolerate for Ivar’s sake.

Both Ubbe and Aslaug had been unexpectedly open.  They hadn’t sugarcoated anything, but neither had they come to blame him. Instead, they’d admitted their own regrets. That they hadn’t seen how much Ivar had been unraveling back then. That they hadn’t realized how much weight Heahmund had been carrying alone. And before they’d said goodnight, Aslaug had looked at him with that steady kind of softness only mothers seem to possess, and made him promise that - should there ever be a next time, even if she prayed there wouldn’t be - he’d come to them sooner. That he’d ask for help. That he wouldn’t carry it all alone again.

He’d promised, quietly, earnestly, eyes already threatening to betray how much it meant to him that they hadn’t welcomed him back out of obligation. That they did it because they still saw him as someone who mattered. Not just to Ivar. But to them as well.

The sharp ringing of the doorbell broke through the chatter on the terrace, leading Heahmund to put down his glass and straighten up. 

"I’ll get it," he offered, already walking inside to get to the front door.

"I’ll come with you," Ivar said, squeezing past Hvitserk, who only rolled his eyes and shifted out of the way.

Right as Heahmund opened the door, Sigurd raised his arm, bringing the item he held closer to Heahmund’s face.

"Housewarming gift," Sigurd said with a smirk. "Hope red’s still your thing."

The smile on Heahmund’s face faltered, not dramatically, just a slight twitch at the corners as his gaze dropped to the bottle. Merlot. Gift-wrapped. Innocent to most. But not to him. And certainly not to Ivar, who had come to stand beside him, one hand lightly grazing Heahmund’s back as he leaned in to see what Sigurd was holding.

"You brought wine?" Ivar asked, the words rough-edged, like he was still processing his thoughts.

"Yeah? Why~?"

Without missing a beat, Heahmund stepped in. He plucked the bottle from Sigurd’s hand with a smooth motion and a quick muttered thanks, then turned halfway, catching Ivar’s eye, sending not a warning but a requesting glare. Not here.

"Sigurd," he continued as he turned back to their guest, tone light, "glad you made it. The others are already up on the terrace. Go ahead, we’ll be right there."

Before Ivar could push further, starting an argument, Heahmund leaned in just slightly and whispered, "Kitchen. Please." His hand brushed Ivar’s arm, not forceful, just enough to redirect. And to Ivar’s credit, he didn’t argue. Not yet. He followed the order, jaw clenched, footsteps tight.

"What the hell was that?" Ivar hissed as soon as the door to the kitchen clicked shut behind them. "He knows."

"He probably didn’t think anything of it. Probably bought it five minutes before arriving, in a rush."

"That’s the problem. He never thinks," Ivar muttered, gesturing toward his own head. "I should push his skull against a wall. Maybe that’ll help get things moving up there."

"Ivar." Heahmund’s voice was a careful mix of warning and amusement.

"Just a little," Ivar added innocently. "In a loving, brotherly fashion."

"No one gets slapped in this home," Heahmund said with a smirk, pulling him close, arms sliding around Ivar’s waist with practiced ease.

"Not even Sigurd?" Ivar asked, his fingers lightly tracing along the curve of Heahmund’s upper arms.

"Not even Sigurd," Heahmund confirmed, brushing a kiss against Ivar’s temple. "Promise!"

"I promise," Ivar muttered, reluctantly. With the glint of mischief only he could pull off in the middle of a moral lesson, he added, "Though I might bribe Grace to teach him a lesson instead. Maybe I’ll lure him into petting her fur. That shiny black death trap. One touch and she’ll claw his soul out."

The mental image made Ivar grin, and Heahmund chuckled softly against his skin.

They stood like that for a moment, close, calm, connected. Then Heahmund leaned back just enough to meet Ivar’s gaze.

"I survived Ireland," he said. "With pubs on every corner and whiskey on every shelf. One bottle at a family barbecue isn’t going to undo me."

"But…"

"No buts. I’m okay," he said gently. "Recovery isn’t about treating alcohol like it’s poison. It’s about not needing it. And I don’t. Not anymore."

Ivar’s eyes searched his, caught somewhere between worry and trust.

Heahmund lifted one hand to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across skin. "It doesn’t have power over me. I’m happy, Ivar. You make me happy."

A small smile found Ivar’s lips, hesitant at first, almost shy, but it stayed. Then, slowly, it tugged wider, forming into a grin.

"Must be the blowjobs," Ivar said, deadpan.

Heahmund let out a low laugh and kissed him again, longer this time. "They might be a contributing factor," he murmured against Ivar’s mouth, grinning into the kiss.

When they parted, Ivar’s hands slid down to rest on Heahmund’s hips, holding him there for just a moment longer. He let out a small breath, like he was finally done being mad at the world, at Sigurd, for the moment.

"We should go back," he murmured. “Before someone eats all the good stuff." That this someone was mainly named Hvitserk, he didn’t need to specify. 

Heahmund nodded, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Ivar’s mouth before stepping toward the door. He held out a hand, and when Ivar took it, their fingers brushed, then laced together with the kind of ease that comes from choosing each other, again and again.