#vilinde

through the gigs, he couldn’t resist the need to take a peek at the delicate black swan before him. though linde was dedicated to his guitar skills and use of his distortion pedals, there stood his longest friend.

ville hermanni valo; the boy who had stuck with him through his mid to late teenage years and the development of their band. the vocalist. the face of the band, for hell’s sake.

while the audience got to roar and whimper at ville’s any move and gaze, linde got the most painful view. he couldn’t resist watch ville’s hands wrap tenderly onto the microphone and the stand clearly and so up close, but what he was envious of the crowd of was their view of ville’s face was. sure, he would turn to check if linde was ready for the next song or not, maybe even asking if he was holding up right. but the crowd got to see ville with that striking glimpse in his eye, how his hips moved from the upfront. how his porcelain skin was so smooth had the beads of sweat on his face rolling off as if he was made of glass.

the “look” he would use to charm some of the fans at the barricade of the show. but not linde. ville solely did the act to get the audience engaged, build some energy for every song — give the people what they paid for, a show. the rest of the guys never saw ville like that, because why would they? just a performance, whatever. but linde could hurl at the swarm of warthness and tickle in his stomach erupted to at the mere thought of seeing ville like that.

esa negra linda . . .

squeezing his eyes after seeing ville for a second, his neck snapped back to look down to his guitar. he kept his eyes shut, trying to erase the perverted thoughts of his lifelong friend and bandmate from blooming into his mind. he felt his face burn —

. . . que me tiene loco . . .

sickly green, sunken in eyes giving linde the most handsome expression. those brown, unkept curls standing on their ends and framing ville’s ghostly complexion. dressed in his mopey clothing, pairing the most sports casual shirt with that long trench coat he always wore. his large hands entangling in linde’s flimsy dreads. the very slight tooth gap encased between lips warmest, and slightly dry with the aftertaste of a cigarette.

que me come poquito a poco . . .

linde gnawed on the flesh in his mouth, tearing the skin on his lips. how odd to think.

ay , mi negra linda . . .

the rhythm section dropped. burton’s fingers pulled away from the delicate keys on his keyboard. only linde’s guitar plucking accompanied ville’s vocals during this part of razorblade kiss. linde’s mind snapped back to his chords. how intimate to support such a verse. usually ville is locked in to the audience, his words wrapping around every member’s beating heart, like a vampire about to bite the neck of his next victim. it’s almost as if ville did bite the neck of someone — as his slow , serpent ready - to - strike vision slithered onto linde.

his heart dropped, as he ever so gently caressed every note into his guitar strings. his breath was stolen from him, as he witnessed this moment he was jealous of that the audience received every time this song was performed. ville sung the words to linde — not to seduce him, but rather to make sure linde hadn’t lost it and signaled a questioning thumbs up with an “are you out of your mind?” stare, as linde was severely out of tune. embarrassment swept over his face, as he clicked back into his performance and gulped down his wild imagination.

☆☆☆

The crunch of frozen pine needles beneath Linde’s boots sounded like breaking bone.

​The forest was a cathedral of shadows, and tonight, Linde felt like a desecration within it. He adjusted the heavy leather strap of his crossbow, the weight of the silver bolts pressing into his shoulder, a constant, stinging reminder of what he was born to do.

And what he was failing to do.

​Instead, he was a traitor in a hunter’s cloak. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the monsters he had slain; he saw Ville. He saw the way the moonlight caught the sharp edge of Ville’s jaw and the terrifying, magnetic pull of those green eyes that seemed to see right through his armour to the broken man that he was.

​He was a predator who had fallen in love with his prey.

It was a sickness.

A fever that turned his blood to lead.

It all started with the rumours.

The rumours had led Linde to a derelict opera house on the edge of a dying town. The velvet curtains were mouldering, and the air tasted of stagnant perfume and damp earth. Linde had been tracking the "Vampyyri Ville" that had been terrorizing the local nobility, not by killing them, but by stealing their secrets and their sanity.

​Linde moved through the wings of the stage, his crossbow levelled, his eyes scanning the rafters. Then, he heard it: a piano.

​The notes were frantic, beautiful, and deeply grieving.

​Linde stepped out onto the stage, the floorboards groaning under his weight. There, bathed in a single shaft of moonlight filtering through a hole in the domed ceiling, sat Ville. He was slumped over an ivory keyboard that had lost half its keys, his long, pale fingers dancing over the remaining ones with a desperate intensity.

​The floorboards groaned with every step Linde took.

Ville knew he was here.

​He didn't stop.

He didn't even look up.

"The tuning is horrific," he remarked, his voice a smooth, melodic baritone that sent a shiver down Linde’s spine. "Time is such a cruel vandal, don't you think?"

​"Linde stepped into the circle of light. He aimed the bolt directly at the center of Ville’s narrow chest.

​Ville finally stopped playing. The silence that followed was deafening. He turned slowly on the bench, looking at Linde with an expression of profound boredom that masked a sharp, shimmering curiosity. He wasn't cowering. He wasn't baring his fangs. He looked like a fallen prince waiting for a punchline.

​"You’ve been following me for days," Ville said, tilting his head. "I grew tired of waiting for you to find the courage to enter, I could smell you from afar. It’s quite intoxicating."

​"I'm the last thing you'll ever smell," Linde retorted, finally speaking, his finger tightening on the trigger.

​But he hesitated. He had hunted dozens of his kind.

Feral things, red-eyed and mindless.

But Ville was different. There was a human weariness in his eyes, a spark of something that felt tragically familiar to Linde.

​Ville stood up, his tall, slender frame casting a long shadow across the stage. He walked toward Linde, right into the point of the silver bolt. He stopped when the tip was pressing against the silk of his waistcoat.

​"Go on then," Ville whispered, his green eyes locking onto Linde’s blue ones. "Be the hero. End the song."

​Linde’s breath hitched. He saw his own reflection in Ville’s eyes, a man defined only by his hatred and his weapons. For the first time in his life, the "monster" looked more at peace than the man.

​Linde’s hands shook, just a fraction. He didn't fire.

​"Why aren't you fighting back?" He demanded, his voice cracking.

​"Because," Ville said, reaching out a cold hand to gently push the barrel of the crossbow aside, "I’ve been dead for hundreds of years, and you are the first interesting thing I’ve seen in at least fifty of them."

​Ville leaned in, his lips inches from Linde’s ear, and whispered, "I think you’re going to be the death of me, Linde. But not tonight."

​Then, with a blur of motion and a swirl of black silk, he was gone, leaving Linde standing alone on a rotting stage, his heart racing with a rhythm he could no longer justify.

He never even told him his name.

From that day on, Linde would hunt out for Ville.

The second meeting took place three weeks later, in the cellar of a ruined apothecary. Linde had tracked a different, younger vampire, a feral thing that had been draining livestock, only to find the creature already dead, pinned to the floor with a jagged shard of floorboard.

​Standing over the carcass was Ville. He looked different tonight. The elegant, bored prince from the opera house was gone; in his place was a creature of sharp angles and frantic energy. His hair was dishevelled, and his eyes weren't green, they were a blown-out, bleeding crimson.

​"You’re late to the party." Ville hissed. His voice wasn't a melody this time; it was a rasp.

​Linde raised his crossbow, but the cellar was cramped. Before he could level the weapon, Ville blurred across the room. The speed was sickening. Linde was slammed back against a stone wall, the air whistling out of his lungs. His crossbow clattered to the floor, sliding out of reach.

​Ville pinned him there, his hands gripping Linde's shoulders with a strength that threatened to crush bone.

​"You should have stayed away," Ville snarled, his face inches from Linde's, "The hunger... it doesn't care about 'interesting' men tonight."

​Linde struggled, reaching for the silver dagger at his belt, but Ville’s hand snapped down, pinning Linde’s wrist against the cold stone. The vampire was trembling, his chest heaving as if he were trying to breathe, though he had no need for air.

​"Do it then," Linde gasped, his pride surging through his fear. "Show me what you really are."

​Ville’s lip curled, revealing fangs that were long and wickedly sharp. He tilted Linde’s head back with terrifying force, exposing the pulse thrumming in the hunter's throat. To a starving vampire, that heartbeat was a drum, a dinner bell, a prayer.

​Linde felt the freezing touch of Ville’s skin. He felt the sharp points of the fangs graze the sensitive skin right over his jugular. He closed his eyes, bracing for the agony, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

​Ville froze. He didn't bite. He pressed his face into the crook of Linde’s neck, his breath, ice cold, shuddering against Linde's skin. A low, pained groan escaped him. It wasn't the sound of a predator; it was the sound of a man starving.

​"So loud," Ville whispered, "Your heart...it’s so loud, Linde. It’s all I can hear."

​The pressure of the fangs retreated. Instead, Ville did something far more dangerous: he pressed a lingering, desperate kiss to the spot where he should have fed.

​Linde’s entire body jolted. The hatred he was supposed to feel was swallowed by a terrifying, electric heat. His free hand, which should have been reaching for a stake, instead found its way into Ville's hair, his fingers curling into his hair.

​Ville pulled back abruptly, his eyes fading from crimson back to a shaken, shimmering green. He looked horrified.

​"I should have killed you," Ville breathed, backing away into the shadows of the cellar. "For both our sakes."

​"Why didn't you?" Linde called out, his voice trembling as he slid down the wall to the floor.

​But the shadows were empty. Ville was gone, leaving Linde alone in the dark, his pulse still racing and the skin of his neck burning where the monster had shown him mercy.

The third time they met, Linde didn't need to see him to know he was there.

​The forest had gone unnervingly quiet, the way it does when a predator enters the clearing. The crickets ceased their rhythmic chirping, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath among the trees.

​"I know you're there." Linde said, his voice level but strained. He had no weapons, a gesture of vulnerability that felt like a sin.

​There was no verbal answer, only the snap of a twig deep in the darkness to the north.

​"If you’re hungry, come and take it. If you’re going to kill me, stop hovering like a bad omen and get it over with."

​A low, hollow laugh echoed through the trees, seemingly coming from everywhere at once. It was a cold sound, stripped of the playful charm from the opera house.

​"You’re a hunter, Linde," Ville’s voice drifted through the mist, sounding distant and ethereal. "You should be more careful with your invitations. Some things, once invited in, never leave."

​"Then show yourself!" Linde yelled, turning toward the darkness, "Stop hiding behind the trees like a coward."

​"I'm not hiding," Ville hissed, his voice suddenly much closer, coming from the darkness right behind Linde’s left shoulder. Linde spun around, but there was nothing there but the swirling mist. "I'm protecting you. From me. From the way you look at me."

​Linde felt a flash of that familiar, burning anger, the one that masked his shame. "I don't need protection from a corpse! I need you to stand still so I can decide whether to stake you or..." He trailed off, the word kiss dying in his throat, replaced by a bitter swallow.

​"Or what?" Ville’s voice was a whisper now, right at the edge of the light’s reach. Linde could see the faint shimmer of a silhouette, the outline of a tall, slender coat, the pale blur of a hand resting against a birch tree, but as soon as he tried to focus his eyes, the image seemed to dissolve.

​"You’re a mess." the voice mocked, though there was a strange tenderness beneath the cruelty. "Your guild is looking for you. They smell the doubt on you. It smells like sour wine."

​"Let them come," Linde snapped, his chest heaving. "At least they have the decency to show their faces."

​"I can't. " Ville murmured, and for a second, the voice sounded incredibly small. "If I step into that light, if I see the way you're looking at me right now, I won't be able to leave again. And we both know how this story ends. Silver or sunlight. I’m sparing you the burden of being the one to do it."

​Linde took a step toward the voice, reaching out into the blackness. His fingers brushed something, something cold and smooth like fine silk, but it slipped away instantly.

​His hand instinctively went to his neck, where the ghost of Ville’s breath had lingered only nights before. Ville hadn't bitten him; he told Linde that his heartbeat was the loudest thing he heard.

​The wind shifted, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of tobacco. Linde froze. His heart hammered against his ribs, the very heartbeat Ville loved to mock.

He should've brought a weapon.

He should turn and fire into the treeline.

​Instead, his hand stayed limp at his side. Empty. The anger remained, a bitter taste in his mouth, but the guilt was heavier. It was a shroud he had chosen to wear, and as he looked into the dark woods, he knew he wasn't strong enough to take it off.

​The forest had returned to its natural state. The crickets resumed their song, and the oppressive, chilling presence was gone. Linde stood alone in the dark, his hand still outstretched, grasping at nothing but the cold night air.

The seasons turned with a cruel indifference. The absence was louder than any conversation. Linde found himself walking the same paths every night, his feet tracing the geography of his own longing. He looked for a broken branch, a footprint that didn't sink into the mud, a sign of a struggle.

Anything.

He would wake up with his hand on his throat, feeling for the phantom pressure of fangs that never came.

He's playing with you, Linde would mutter to himself, pacing his small, cramped room. He’s a monster. You were a toy, and he got bored.

​But then he would remember the way Ville had looked in the cellar, the genuine agony in his eyes when he refused to bite.

That wasn't a game.

It couldn't have been.

Ignoring the fleeting memories, Linde finally found him in the ruins of a monastery, where the snow fell through the collapsed roof like powdered bone.

​Ville sat on a stone altar, his long legs dangling, looking as though he had been waiting for an appointment. He looked ravaged, his silk shirt torn, his skin so translucent it looked like wet paper. But his eyes were still that haunting, predatory green eyes that had occupied every one of Linde’s thoughts.

​"The prodigal hunter returns," Ville said, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "Did they send you to clean up your mess?"

​Linde didn't answer. He raised his heavy crossbow. His muscles ached from the tension. He had spent months hating this creature for the hold he had over him, hating the way his own heart betrayed his training every time he closed his eyes.

​"Don't move," Linde rasped.

​"Why would I?" Ville stood up, walking toward the crossbow with a slow, deliberate gait. He stopped when the silver-tipped bolt was inches from his throat. "I’ve spent months starving in these mountains because I couldn't stand the taste of anyone who didn't smell like you. Death would be mercy."

​Linde’s finger hovered over the trigger. This was the moment of redemption. One squeeze, and he would be a hero again.

​"I hate you," Linde whispered, his eyes filling with hot, angry tears.

​"I know," Ville replied, leaning forward until his cold skin touched the metal of the bolt. "Shoot me. Take your life back."

​Linde’s knuckles turned white. The trigger clicked, but his hand froze.

He couldn't do it.

​Linde screamed, the sound echoing off the frozen walls. He swung the crossbow away and smashed it against the stone altar. The wood splintered, the silver bolt skittering uselessly across the floor.

The monastery was silent, save for the whistling wind and the frantic, heavy thud of Linde’s heart. It felt like a drumbeat in a tomb, the only living thing left in a world of stone and ice.

​Linde looked at Ville’s fangs, then back to his eyes. The fear was there, sharp and cold, but beneath it was a weary sort of peace. He was tired of being the man in the middle. He was tired of the guilt that had rotted his insides for months.

​"Make me like you," Linde said. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a death sentence.

​The wind roared outside, a reminder of the approaching morning. Ville looked at Linde’s throat, the pulse jumping beneath the skin, the heat radiating from his collar. His hunger, usually a dull ache, flared into a white-hot roar.

He reached out, his long, frigid fingers sliding beneath Linde’s leather collar, grazing the fever hot skin of his neck.

​Lindes pulse hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against Ville’s fingertips.

​Ville’s breath was a cold mist against Linde’s lips. The hunger between them had mutated over the months; it was no longer just about blood. It was a gravitational pull, a desperate need to bridge the gap between the living and the dead. Ville leaned in, his nose brushing against Linde’s jawline, inhaling the scent of cedar, sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of Linde's mounting fear and longing.

​"Do you know what you’re asking for?" Ville murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rasp against Linde’s ear. "I'll have to break you. I'll have to drain every ounce of the man you were until there is nothing left but the shadow of me."

​"Break me, then," Linde gasped, his hands digging in Ville’s silken hair, pulling him closer. "I’m already half-dead from wanting you."

​A low, predatory growl rumbled in Ville’s chest. He shoved Linde back against the stone altar, his body pinning the hunter's with a strength that felt both punishing and worshipful. Ville’s mouth found the sensitive curve of Linde’s throat, his lips trailing ice cold fire across the skin.

​Linde threw his head back, a sharp moan escaping him as he felt the graze of Ville's fangs, a warning, a promise. The contrast was agonizing: Linde’s body was burning with a human fever, while Ville was a beautiful, marble statue of frost.

​He sank his fangs in.

​The pain was a cold flash that quickly dissolved into burning heat. Linde’s legs gave way, but Ville held him upright, his arms like iron bands around Linde's waist. As Ville drank, Linde felt a terrifying, erotic thrumming through his entire nervous system. It was an intimacy more profound than anything he had ever known, his life flowing directly into the monster he had been born to kill.

after constant touring, this day off was well deserved. the finnish band went out to explore what the states had to offer, amused by the vulgar sun's heat during the mornings and the afternoons turning into cool and quiet nights, with only the moon and stars to accompany them as they roamed the dim streets for some cheap beer.

after acquiring their needs and settling into the shared hotel room, the group sat in the hot, sweat-heavy air of the space and tore the pack of room-temperature booze open, as a bong and its partner lighter were passed within the circle while the cheap radio blared its fuzzy-sounding classic rock, consisting of cream all the way to bon jovi.

within that mix, oddly came the sweet charming signature beat of the icelandic artist, björk's, "venus as a boy."

odd for such a distinct song to sneak its way into a classic rock radio mix, but did it really matter?

linde, who sat criss-crossed on the ground with his turn with the bong, could feel the song's introduction beat ring through him. leaning back against nothing, he shut his eyes as he tuned himself in with every beat of it.

across linde, was ville scattered with empty modelo bottles, who’s figure was embraced by the flame of the fireplace of the hotel room. migé threw a plague of arguments into some drunken conversation he was having with ville, who was drunkenly pensive at these ideas his band mate proposed about some theory about society.

how handsome he looked, linde’s mind wandered. never slipped past his breath to say it to face to the gorgeous man directly in front of him. how breathtaking ville looked when his face bloomed the flowing blood into his cheeks whenever he drank. lips so plump from sipping on the bottles constantly, in an uneven fashion. he drank in a way that was not "on beat," sort of off beat, if that made any sense? linde was clearly way too gone this time around as compared to his usual sessions.

“ville, y’look really beautiful tonight,” he blurted.

in truth, these moments of capturing the handsome angles of that man were fond to linde always. sober, or not, ville charmed him to the core. romantic, philosophical, and gentle in his respective nature. there was never a time such deprived, sunken eyes made linde feel extreme guilt for not acting upon his instincts.

ville turned his chin, resting in his palm as his eyes fluttered with that exhausted, whimsical expression of his. linde felt his eyes as a temptress to his will, feeling that ville could see it through the mirror of his own eyes. blinking yet so suggestively, assuming from the influence of so much alcohol, he muttered, “you’re not too bad yourself, linde.”

shivers ran up linde's spine, flushing him with embarrassment from the words that slipped past his lips.

ville shifted his position to face linde, fixating on linde’s features as a wasted migé’s philosophical babbling was drowned out by björk’s vocals in his head.

the circle in which they all sat in suddenly felt as wide as a football field to linde. it looked to him that ville was stretching across the ritual space into his face. or maybe it was the weed taking him to a new high — regardless, he squeezed his eyes shut in hopes it was simply the dope messing with his vision.

wrong — he swore he could start feeling beer-reeking breath with a dash of a suspiciously familiar oriflame cologne polluted the air in front of him. to his surprise, it wasn’t his cross getting to him. ville was literally inches away from his face.

“your nose ring looks new. is it?” ville slurred richly, his eyes slowly studying every feature of linde’s face.

he knew it wasn’t knew; ville was saying anything to have as an excuse. that nose ring has been there for a hot second now. and how the energy between him and linde has always been different as compared to the other guys.

… maybe it’s because of how much closer they got when migé served military those couple of years ago when the band was just starting. or how they’ve had a couple of different drummers and pianists added to their mix. regardless — the unaddressed intensity between them two was undeniably different.

after an eternity of heavy and hungry silence, ville’s limbs seemed tangled into linde’s. they almost seemed like puzzle pieces as ville held himself up with his hands on either side of linde, knees trapping his right leg. as ville towered above him, linde gulped, scooting the bong away from his side to make space for his own arms. he didn’t know how to approach this — a high and being wasted are very different. he wasn’t as bold as ville was at the moment, so linde could only ground himself in silence by gripping the rug that rested underneath them.

so much brewed with linde; being fried, his heartbeat running wild as the alluring man clicked on top of his own body, the song on the radio feeling so damn long. not to mention how the fire was still caressing ville’s most defining features. it was so much to take in. the burning questions how ville looked up close being answered: one eyebrow always more prominent than the other, the shadows contouring his cheekbones and jawline, how long his lashes were that complimented his earthly, tiresome eyes.

with his own study, he stretched his time into ville’s impatience. his lips slightly brushed over his, linde experiencing those booze drenched crevices of ville’s lips against his as an introductory, soft and sweet, only to be collapsed into within the next second. linde’s mind felt like it could explode at any second, as ville worked his swollen lips onto his, slipping his tongue in and out mischievously as he leaned his face into linde’s.

he couldn’t freak out — his mind was only fogging up with overwhelming emotion. as ville worked alone on the starved, awkward kiss, linde began to return the passion. he began slow, savoring and licking whatever beer ( or beer-infused saliva ) stained ville’s lips, welcoming his tongue with his own. his once frozen limbs began to click into ville’s kneeled legs, hands beginning to unclench the rug.

the rest of his environment fell blank. this performance felt like everything they’ve created before. it was familiar, almost secondhand, only this time, the mere spits of spark bursted into a malicious flame that consumed every fiber in its surrounding. the way the clash of ville’s dark vocals and linde’s guitar leads was the only connection he thought there was to only exist between them. the grotesque beauty and mysteries of such a sentiment that ville wrote about were beyond words, as linde found this to be his whole being.

though this seemed as ville’s impulses, he had always held back at even suggesting this idea to linde. sure, he’d kissed the other band mates multiple times on the lips in public, or even just other mates as he didn’t think too much if it, because what’s the issue?

but linde was different to him. it wasn’t as easy to just do it with other guys for jokes. even drunk, he knew this is what he wanted.

linde felt himself be set off by the prohibited temptation on him. the music became seemed to become his own thoughts being sung out loud.

to some extent, it felt like a competition.

linde’s fingers found their way into the tangled curls of the unkept shag of ville’s, clawing to keep these affections on him that which he was deprived of. how embarrassed he felt to be grabbing selfishly onto what linde felt was an angel blessing him.

the corners of ville’s lips curled smitten. he fell more into a drunken whimsy influenced by how he starved to taste linde. one of the hands that he’d been using to keep himself up off the ground made its way to feel linde’s forearm, exploring both linde’s muscle and his weed-tasting mouth. not like he minded.

it was literally suffocating how in much need they were of one another, refusing to break apart for even a second for breath.

this had been going on for too long — it started feeling pornographic to the rest of the guys, who kept staring as they cracked cans and packed bowls. a still-drunk migé blurted to burton, who was struggling to spark a drunk cigarette, “y’ve noticed that gay tension between ‘em too, yeah?”

ville's body was fitting into linde's like a puzzle piece that had been missing, his fingers lightly grazing the crevices of the back of linde's neck. his gentle touches became his hand supporting linde's nape; making the kiss deeper, as if linde’s handful of curls pressing into the back of his head wasn’t making it close enough.

sloppily pulling his face away enough to breathe, linde jokingly mumbled some airy sappy words he could phrase, “arousin’ me.”

ville, who was practically panting above him looking starstruck, drew his bottom lip into his teeth. “you’re one to speak, mikko," he managed to whisper through sighs. his focus was on his artwork on linde’s lips; brushed with his alcohol slobber and gentle bites, before slowly tracing to linde's blown-out, and just as in equal awe, expression.

upon seeing how struck linde was under him, ville's face was bright with pride, and with a shit-eating smirk whispered:

They were boys when it began. Too young to understand what longing meant, too unguarded to hide it from themselves. Ville had been magnetic even then: too fast, eyes too sharp, voice already carrying a weight it had no right to.

Linde orbited him naturally, instinctively, as if his body had decided something his mind had yet to articulate.

They shared everything - music, cigarettes, secrets whispered into the dark. They shared beds when they were too cold and shared jackets.

There were moments, too many to count now, that hovered on the edge of something more.

Lingering looks.

Accidental touches that didn’t feel accidental. The heat of Ville’s body pressed against his side for reasons neither of them ever named.

But the truth followed him relentlessly:

Linde wanted him.

The wanting was constant, an undercurrent beneath every chord he played. It was there in rehearsals, in hotel hallways, in shared laughter over drinks that tasted worse the older they got. It was there when Ville leaned over his shoulder to comment on a riff, breath warm against his ear, presence so familiar it made Linde’s chest tighten painfully.

And every time it surfaced, guilt followed close behind.

Linde was married.

He loved his wife. His Manna. His Mariam. That was the truth. He loved the way she laughed when she forgot to guard it, loved the quiet domestic rhythms they’d built together. Coffee in the mornings, shared groceries, the mundane tenderness of a life that didn’t demand too much of him. Loving her felt responsible. It felt adult. It felt like a decision he could stand behind.

What he never told her, what he barely admitted to himself, was that he had already been in love for most of his life.

But again, he was married.

The word felt like an anchor and a shackle all at once.

During performances, it was hardest.

The stage stripped away his defenses. Everything was too loud, too bright, too immediate. There was no room to look away when Ville’s voice curled around a lyric that sounded like a confession. No escape when their eyes met across the stage, held for half a second too long.

Those moments were unbearable.

They were fleeting, deniable, and devastating.

Ville would sing, eyes locked on Linde with an intensity that made his fingers falter on the strings. The crowd would scream, unaware that something private and ruinous had just passed between two men they thought they understood.

Linde felt like a fraud standing there.

He was betraying everyone at once. His wife, his friend, himself.

At night, alone in hotel rooms that all looked the same, Linde replayed moments he wished he could forget. A glance held too long. A joke that landed a little too close to the truth. The way Ville’s voice softened when he said Linde’s name, stripped of irony, stripped of performance.

He thought about Manna then. About the life waiting for him at home. About how wrong it felt to carry this other love inside him like a secret organ, pulsing and alive.

He remembered when he proposed to her, part of him wished she would have said no.

Love didn’t always need to be acted upon. Wanting wasn’t the same as doing. He had made a choice, and choices meant sacrifice. This quiet misery was simply the cost.

But some nights, the guilt curdled into something uglier.

Resentment.

Not at Ville. Never at Ville. Never at Manna.

At himself.

For not being stronger. For not being braver. For not having chosen differently when it might have mattered. For marrying someone without fully understanding the shape of his own heart.

He wondered, sometimes, if this was his punishment, not for loving Ville but for loving him quietly. For choosing safety over honesty. For mistaking endurance for virtue.

He wondered if Ville ever laid awake thinking the same thoughts.

He would never ask.

Asking would require courage he no longer believed he possessed.

So he stayed. He played. He smiled. He would go home to a marriage built on partial truths and did his best to be good, to be kind, to be enough. To be a father.

And somewhere, beneath it all, the echo persisted.

The echo of a love that never demanded to be returned, it only endured.

By the fifth night in a row, Linde stopped sleeping.

It wasn’t unusual at first, tour insomnia was an old companion, something he knew how to manage with routines and discipline and the quiet endurance he had built his entire adult life around. But this was different. This was not restlessness. This was vigilance.

Every time he closed his eyes, Ville was there.

Not as fantasy. That would have been easier to condemn, easier to shove away with shame and cold showers and prayerless promises. Ville appeared as memory. As presence. As the unbearable weight of proximity.

The sound of his voice, stripped of amplification.

The way his shoulder brushed Linde’s in narrow hallways.

The heat of him onstage, close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

Linde laid awake in unfamiliar hotel rooms, staring at ceilings that all looked the same, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the even breathing of the city outside. His phone remained face-down on the nightstand. He answered his wife’s messages dutifully, lovingly, with words that were true but incomplete.

I love you.

I miss you too.

The show went well.

He never told her how much it cost him to say those things.

By the time they reached the next city, the exhaustion had settled into his bones like something parasitic. He moved through soundcheck on muscle memory alone, fingers stiff, jaw permanently tight. Ville noticed immediately.

Ville always noticed.

“You look like shit.” Ville said mildly, leaning against an amp, cigarette unlit between his fingers.

Linde snorted without humor, “Always the poet.”

Ville smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You sleeping at all?”

The question struck too close. Linde felt it land in his chest, sharp and invasive.

“i sleep enough.” he lied.

Ville studied him for a moment longer than necessary. There was something dangerous in Ville’s attention when he let it linger, something intimate and unguarded that Linde had spent years training himself to deflect.

“Don’t burn yourself out.” Ville said eventually.

As if that hadn’t already happened.

The show that night was smaller, darker. The kind of venue where the stage lights felt closer, hotter, where the crowd pressed in like a living wall. Sweat pooled early, soaked through Linde’s shirt before the first three songs were done.

Ville was incandescent.

There were nights when Ville performed like a possessed man, and this was one of them. His voice tore through the room raw and unfiltered, eyes bright, movements sharper than usual. He prowled the stage, fed off the crowd’s attention, and bled himself open willingly.

Linde felt every second of it like a personal assault.

He tried not to look. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder.

During one song, slow, aching, and too familiar, Ville turned toward him fully. Not by accident. Not by chance. His eyes locked onto Linde’s and stayed there.

Too long.

The crowd screamed, mistaking the moment for performance chemistry, for showmanship, for the easy intimacy of a band that had played together for decades. They didn’t hear the way Linde’s heartbeat stuttered. They didn’t see the way his fingers faltered on the strings for half a breath before discipline slammed back into place.

Ville sang directly to him.

Not the crowd.

Not the room.

Him.

The lyrics twisted themselves into something unrecognizable, something too precise, too sharp. Linde felt exposed, flayed open beneath the lights. His chest constricted, breath going shallow.

Look away.

Don’t let this happen.

He broke eye contact abruptly, staring down at his guitar like it was a lifeline. Shame surged hot and violent. He imagined Manna’s face, her trust, the quiet certainty she had in him.

The guilt nearly made him sick.

By the end of the song, his hands were trembling.

No one noticed.

They never did.

Backstage, the adrenaline dropped too fast. Linde leaned heavily against a wall, sweat cooling uncomfortably against his skin. His head throbbed dully, pressure building behind his eyes.

Ville approached, concern etched openly across his face now.

“Hey” he said quietly, “You alright?”

Linde laughed, too sharp, too brittle. “You keep asking me that.”

“Because you keep not answering,” Ville replied.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Linde straightened, forced himself upright. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Ville’s jaw tightened. “You’re lying.”

The accusation was soft. It was worse that way.

Linde felt something inside him strain, like a thread pulled too tight for too long. He had built his life on restraint, on silence, on knowing exactly when to stop himself. But exhaustion eroded those boundaries. Hunger made confession tempting.

“I can’t do this right now.” Linde said, voice low.

Ville stepped closer. Too close.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Ville said. “Just talk to me.”

That was the problem.

Linde looked at him, really looked. At the familiar lines of his face, the eyes that knew him too well, the mouth that had shaped his name a thousand times without ever crossing the line that mattered.

Something inside him cracked.

“I’m married.” Linde said suddenly. The words hung between them, heavy and misplaced.

“I know.” Ville said slowly.

“I mean-” Linde dragged a hand through his hair, breathing unsteady. “I mean, I chose this. I chose a life. I chose stability. I chose someone who loves me and trusts me and-” His voice broke, barely. “And I don’t get to feel like this.”

Ville didn’t interrupt. That hurt too.

“I don’t get to stand on stage and feel like I’m...” Linde stopped himself, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. “It’s wrong.”

Ville’s expression shifted, something dark passing through it.

“Is it?” he asked quietly.

Linde flinched like he’d been struck.

“Yes.” he said immediately. Too immediately. “It has to be.”

Ville looked away, exhaling slowly. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words were soft. Devastating.

Linde’s heart slammed violently against his ribs. “Don’t.” he whispered. “Please.”

Ville turned back to him, eyes sharp and wounded and far too honest. “I’ve been doing this with you my entire life. I don’t know how to turn it off either.”

Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.

Linde felt dizzy. The room seemed too small, the walls pressing in. This was it, he moment he had spent years avoiding, the edge he had danced along so carefully.

If he said one wrong thing now, everything would collapse.

“I can’t.” Linde said, backing away a step, “I can’t hurt her.”

Ville’s face closed off, shutters slamming down. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Of course not.” Linde said hoarsely. “i just can’t even-” He gestured helplessly between them. “I can’t let myself think about what this is.”

“Then don’t.”

The dismissal cut deeper than any argument would have.

Linde left the room before he could say something unforgivable.

That night, alone again, the breakdown came quietly.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no sobs, no shattered furniture. Just Linde sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent breaths he couldn’t quite catch.

He loved his wife.

He loved Ville.

The two truths existed simultaneously, incompatible and unyielding.

He had built a life on choosing duty over desire, and now the weight of that choice threatened to crush him.

He pressed his fist to his mouth to keep himself quiet. Tomorrow, he would wake up and put himself back together. He always did. He would apologize to Ville without naming what they were both pretending not to know. He would text his wife something affectionate and honest and incomplete.

He would endure.

But something had shifted.

The echo inside him was no longer just an ache, it was a fracture, spreading slowly and inevitably.

And Linde knew, with a clarity that terrified him, that he could not keep living like this forever.

Unfortunately, tragedy didn’t arrive all at once.

It crept in quietly, the way exhaustion does, the way rot spreads through wood long before anything collapses.

After that night, something fundamental shifted between them. Ville stopped lingering near Linde during soundcheck. He stopped seeking eye contact mid-song. Onstage, he angled himself toward the crowd and gave them everything he used to give without thinking.

The distance was subtle.

It was devastating.

Linde told himself it was for the best. This was what he had chosen. What he had insisted on. Boundaries. Control. Safety. The quiet, disciplined life of a man who kept his promises.

But discipline didn’t soften the loss.

Onstage, the absence screamed.

Where Ville’s presence had once felt like gravity, now there was a void. An empty space Linde couldn’t stop orienting himself around. His body still expected Ville to be there, close, responsive, familiar. When that expectation went unanswered, it left him unbalanced, half a step behind the music.

He started making mistakes.

Small ones at first, barely perceptible, easy to excuse. A missed cue. A fraction of a second, too slow on a transition. No one else seemed to notice, but Linde did. Every error felt like proof of something slipping out of his control.

Ville never looked at him when it happened.

That was worse.

The shows blurred together. Cities lost their names. Hotel rooms became interchangeable boxes where Linde lay awake listening to his own thoughts circle like vultures. Mannas messages grew more frequent, more concerned.

You sound tired.

Are you okay?

We should talk when you get home.

Each message tightened the knot in his chest.

When he finally did call her, his voice was steady. It always was. He told her he missed her. He told her he was fine. He told her he loved her.

All of it was true.

None of it was enough.

The breaking point came during a show he would later struggle to remember clearly. The venue was packed, the air thick with heat and anticipation. Ville’s voice cut through the darkness sharp and unforgiving, stripped of the warmth it once carried for Linde.

Midway through the set, during a song that used to feel like a shared secret, Linde felt his focus slip completely. His fingers hesitated. The sound fractured. Just for a moment, but enough.

The wrong note rang out, ugly and unmistakable.

A ripple went through the band. Ville faltered, just barely, turning his head in reflex before catching himself and pressing on. The crowd didn’t notice. They never did.

Linde did.

Something in him gave way.

His hands went numb. The stage lights blurred. Sound dulled, as if he were underwater. He finished the song on instinct alone, heart pounding violently, breath coming too fast.

By the time they left the stage, his vision had narrowed to a tunnel.

In his dressing room, he barely made it to a chair before sitting heavily, head dropping into his hands. Sweat dripped from his hair, down his neck, onto the floor. He felt sick. Physically, viscerally unwell.

Ville stopped in front of him.

Not close. Not touching.

Ville said, voice guarded. “You need a medic?”

Linde shook his head. The movement made the room spin.

“I’m sorry ” he said suddenly.

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Ville stiffened. “For what?”

“For everything,” Linde said. His voice was quiet, scraped raw. “For making you-” He swallowed hard. “For pretending this was something we could just turn off.”

Ville’s expression shuttered completely.

“You don’t get to do this now.” he said.

“I know.” Linde whispered. “I just needed you to know that it wasn’t nothing. It was never nothing.”

Ville looked at him for a long moment. There was something old and tired in his eyes, something that hurt to see.

“I know.” Ville said softly. “That’s why I had to stop.”

Linde sighed, "We're such a mess."

Ville chuckled, "You are married, so there isn't anything we can do about, is there?"

Linde laughed once, a broken sound that didn’t reach his eyes. Then, before he could think better of it, before the weight of vows and years and damage could clamp down on his spine, he was on his feet.

The chair screeched back, loud and ugly in the small room.

Ville’s head snapped up. “Linde?”

Too late.

Linde crossed the distance in two unsteady steps, hands fisting in the front of Ville’s jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world. He could feel Ville’s sharp intake of breath, feel the tension coil through him, feel the moment where Ville should have pulled away.

He didn’t.

Linde kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate and clumsy and full of everything he’d spent years swallowing down, every stolen glance across a stage, every harmony sung too close, every night lying awake next to someone else and thinking of Ville’s hands on a microphone stand.

Ville froze for half a second, shock stiffening his body.

Then he kissed him back.

Just once. Just long enough to ruin everything.

Ville’s mouth was warm, familiar in a way that made Linde’s chest ache. His hand came up instinctively, fingers curling into Linde’s shirt like muscle memory had been waiting all this time for permission. The kiss tasted like adrenaline and old cigarettes.

Something unbearably them.

And then Ville broke it.

He shoved Linde back, not hard, but enough to put space between them. Enough to remind them both where they were.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ville snapped, voice cracking right down the middle.

Linde stood there breathing hard, forehead nearly touching Ville’s, eyes bright and wrecked. “I needed you to know,” he said hoarsely. “I needed you to feel it. That I didn’t imagine this. That I didn’t lie to myself for years for nothing.”

Ville turned away, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to physically wipe the moment off his skin. “Jesus Christ, Linde.” He laughed bitterly. “You think I needed proof?”

Silence crashed back into the room, thick and suffocating.

“I stop myself everyday.” Ville said quietly, not looking at him. “Everyday, I don’t touch you. Everyday, I don’t say what I want to say because you made a choice.”

The words hit Linde harder than any shove. His voice shook now. “And I hate myself for it.”

Ville finally looked back at him. His eyes were shining, furious and wounded and unbearably soft all at once. “Then don’t do that again,” he said. “Don’t make me the thing you reach for when you can’t stand your own life.”

Linde’s chest felt like it was collapsing inward. “You’re not a thing.” he whispered. “You’re the only thing that ever felt real.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, dangerous; like one more second and they’d either tear each other apart or fall back together in a way neither could survive.

Finally, Ville stepped back, putting real distance between them this time.

“Get some water.” he said, voice flat, professional, armour sliding back into place. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Linde nodded numbly, retreating to the chair like a man walking away from a cliff he’d already jumped off in his head.

As Ville reached for the door, his hand hesitated on the handle.

“Linde?” he said without turning around.

“Yeah?”

“That kiss?” Ville swallowed. “That’s why I can’t be near you like this.”

The door closed softly behind him.