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Not The Father We Imagined
Aug. 23rd, 2021 08:42 pmFor Nexus Writing Prompt: 1. "You could stand to be the responsible one, for once."
Tom had given him the strangest look hours ago when he had offered to watch their baby so the two could have some time to themselves away from the baby and the madness. After all the rockers put them through, the old man deserved a break. It was his wife that convinced Tom that the punk would be a safe caretaker for their delicate little girl.
The instructions were specific but the punk listened dutifully before taking the little girl into his arms. Vars didn't have much experience with children this young but he had wanted them when he was married. Maybe he would never have his own but he loved the feeling the moment Zayda was in his arms. She grabbed at the wolf around his neck giggling and his heart melted. She was perfect, all the way down to her odd green eyes.
What was he to do with the little girl in her frilly blue dress, such contrast to his worn leather and chains but the Norwegian didn't care. Being a baby he didn't even try English and spoke to her in Norwegian, the pretty little red head with curls all over, sticking up every which way. Vars gave her a kiss on the forehead and carried the little girl down to breakfast with him, late because he was with the Jones before they left for a couple days. People stared and Vars gave them nasty looks at first before distracted by the little girl. She was curious about everything, especially his jewelry. While he ate he watched her inspect each piece, tiny fingers wrapping around the various pendants around the punk's neck and wrists. He was without his spikes today due to the curious hands and delicate fingers.
Breakfast done he went back to the room he shared with the other punk. Vars had cleaned it in the morning to prepare for having a baby there. He certainly didn't need to worry about bottles and whatever else was left laying around. Walking into the empty room he isn't sure if he is glad or disappointed that Viktor is out. There is part of him, the part of him that bonded closely to partners, that wanted Viktor there, to sit with him, baby in arms like he had imagined doing with his wife so many times. The baby cooed oddly when he felt his heart sinking, depressed still about the loss of his wife. He hated her and still loved her, it hurt inside. Zayda seemed to sense it as she laid her head on his shoulder and held tight to his neck.
“Er du ikke den søteste babyen?” Vars asked as he pulled her in close, laughing when she tried to kiss his cheek, an awkward sort of open mouthed baby kiss. She hadn't quite got the idea of lips pressed into a kiss but that was ok. It meant the same thing.
“Hva vil du gjøre? Bør vi lese?” Of course all he got in return was gleeful squeals. He imagined his accent and foreign language was what caused her to brighten when he spoke, it was novel. All babies liked to experience new things.
“Her kan du ha Jörmungand, og jeg skal lese.” Vars told her as he sat down on the plush chair in the room before offering Zayda his twisted armband to play with. The book was one he always kept on hand, an old book that he had for years, filled Norse myths. Not the Christianized modern versions but the originals with all their meaning and blood intacted, the battles and the poetics. He read it to her in old Norse, a language he was still learning from an elder in the punk community back home. He knew enough though to read to the baby from the book.
Vars settled into the chair, Zayda tucked into the crook of his arm and the book open. She leaned her head on him, playing with the ring and staring at the pages. In this moment there was something primal at work, a rightness that he couldn't ignore. Parts of him had died when he lost his wife; dreams, wants, life. He had given up on whole chunks of his life but this moment, with this odd, delicate baby pulled all of them back to the surface. Though he kept on reading, tears welled up unbidden and unstoppable, as if the pain he carried for so long was seeping out with his words until eventually the tears ceased as suddenly as they had stared. He felt exhausted, but it was a pleasant tired. More like coming off the stage than the world weary exhaustion the punk normally felt. Having a child with him was right, in his soul this caused a singing feeling of freedom. As he read on his mind left the words he was speaking to dwell on where he was. Perhaps this was the gods seeing fit to heal his wounds, the ones deep inside that no one saw and he never exposed. Zayda felt touched by the gods in Vars' eyes and that made her important, not that she wasn't already.
Kicking up his feet on the table he relaxed into the chair with the crimson haired child, reading stories older than either of them, forgotten long before either of them were born. In this moment, things fell into place and the perspective of unfettering himself from his past seemed within reach.
Tom had given him the strangest look hours ago when he had offered to watch their baby so the two could have some time to themselves away from the baby and the madness. After all the rockers put them through, the old man deserved a break. It was his wife that convinced Tom that the punk would be a safe caretaker for their delicate little girl.
The instructions were specific but the punk listened dutifully before taking the little girl into his arms. Vars didn't have much experience with children this young but he had wanted them when he was married. Maybe he would never have his own but he loved the feeling the moment Zayda was in his arms. She grabbed at the wolf around his neck giggling and his heart melted. She was perfect, all the way down to her odd green eyes.
What was he to do with the little girl in her frilly blue dress, such contrast to his worn leather and chains but the Norwegian didn't care. Being a baby he didn't even try English and spoke to her in Norwegian, the pretty little red head with curls all over, sticking up every which way. Vars gave her a kiss on the forehead and carried the little girl down to breakfast with him, late because he was with the Jones before they left for a couple days. People stared and Vars gave them nasty looks at first before distracted by the little girl. She was curious about everything, especially his jewelry. While he ate he watched her inspect each piece, tiny fingers wrapping around the various pendants around the punk's neck and wrists. He was without his spikes today due to the curious hands and delicate fingers.
Breakfast done he went back to the room he shared with the other punk. Vars had cleaned it in the morning to prepare for having a baby there. He certainly didn't need to worry about bottles and whatever else was left laying around. Walking into the empty room he isn't sure if he is glad or disappointed that Viktor is out. There is part of him, the part of him that bonded closely to partners, that wanted Viktor there, to sit with him, baby in arms like he had imagined doing with his wife so many times. The baby cooed oddly when he felt his heart sinking, depressed still about the loss of his wife. He hated her and still loved her, it hurt inside. Zayda seemed to sense it as she laid her head on his shoulder and held tight to his neck.
“Er du ikke den søteste babyen?” Vars asked as he pulled her in close, laughing when she tried to kiss his cheek, an awkward sort of open mouthed baby kiss. She hadn't quite got the idea of lips pressed into a kiss but that was ok. It meant the same thing.
“Hva vil du gjøre? Bør vi lese?” Of course all he got in return was gleeful squeals. He imagined his accent and foreign language was what caused her to brighten when he spoke, it was novel. All babies liked to experience new things.
“Her kan du ha Jörmungand, og jeg skal lese.” Vars told her as he sat down on the plush chair in the room before offering Zayda his twisted armband to play with. The book was one he always kept on hand, an old book that he had for years, filled Norse myths. Not the Christianized modern versions but the originals with all their meaning and blood intacted, the battles and the poetics. He read it to her in old Norse, a language he was still learning from an elder in the punk community back home. He knew enough though to read to the baby from the book.
Vars settled into the chair, Zayda tucked into the crook of his arm and the book open. She leaned her head on him, playing with the ring and staring at the pages. In this moment there was something primal at work, a rightness that he couldn't ignore. Parts of him had died when he lost his wife; dreams, wants, life. He had given up on whole chunks of his life but this moment, with this odd, delicate baby pulled all of them back to the surface. Though he kept on reading, tears welled up unbidden and unstoppable, as if the pain he carried for so long was seeping out with his words until eventually the tears ceased as suddenly as they had stared. He felt exhausted, but it was a pleasant tired. More like coming off the stage than the world weary exhaustion the punk normally felt. Having a child with him was right, in his soul this caused a singing feeling of freedom. As he read on his mind left the words he was speaking to dwell on where he was. Perhaps this was the gods seeing fit to heal his wounds, the ones deep inside that no one saw and he never exposed. Zayda felt touched by the gods in Vars' eyes and that made her important, not that she wasn't already.
Kicking up his feet on the table he relaxed into the chair with the crimson haired child, reading stories older than either of them, forgotten long before either of them were born. In this moment, things fell into place and the perspective of unfettering himself from his past seemed within reach.
The Pack of Fenrir
Aug. 12th, 2021 10:52 amVars had been away from Norway for nearly a year but no one forgot who he was in his old haunts. Not only was Vars a rough and tumble punk, he also was also the man who would see the other bands brought into the spotlight. The Rock In, one of Oslo's punk and metal venues was where his pack hung out. They called them a pack because they were pagans, heathens who followed the old gods.
Once they had their hotel this was the first place Vars wanted Viktor to come with him. Among the heathens. Vars walked in and headed to the back where the dull thud of axes impacting wood was ringing through the quiet bar. Midday was a time for drinking but later the music would be loud. Here, axes and knives were thrown instead of darts and booze came by pitchers and full sized bottles.
Eventually, Vars and his tall, British companion are noticed and a group of punks starts toward them, blonde with streaks of color in their hair and spikes and chains on their jackets and vests. They started surrounding and shoving at Vars. Closer, they all wore tattoos and jewelry of the wolf and serpent that were on so many things that Vars owned. They are obviously asking about Viktor though it is in Norwegian. Vars answers, obvious in Viktor's name and the fact that everyone looks to Viktor.
"We speak English." Vars tells them and that is enough for them all to start talking to Viktor, introducing themselves. They all gave names and their god. Many followed Loki and Fenrir, but also other gods.
"Come. Drink and teach fight." Vars grabbed Viktor's hand and started dragging him along. One of the punks that seems the friendliest with Vars, a man named Aksel and his girl, started laughing.
"Har Vars en tidligere kjæreste?" Aksel asks and Vars punches him hard in the shoulder for the question.
Once they had their hotel this was the first place Vars wanted Viktor to come with him. Among the heathens. Vars walked in and headed to the back where the dull thud of axes impacting wood was ringing through the quiet bar. Midday was a time for drinking but later the music would be loud. Here, axes and knives were thrown instead of darts and booze came by pitchers and full sized bottles.
Eventually, Vars and his tall, British companion are noticed and a group of punks starts toward them, blonde with streaks of color in their hair and spikes and chains on their jackets and vests. They started surrounding and shoving at Vars. Closer, they all wore tattoos and jewelry of the wolf and serpent that were on so many things that Vars owned. They are obviously asking about Viktor though it is in Norwegian. Vars answers, obvious in Viktor's name and the fact that everyone looks to Viktor.
"We speak English." Vars tells them and that is enough for them all to start talking to Viktor, introducing themselves. They all gave names and their god. Many followed Loki and Fenrir, but also other gods.
"Come. Drink and teach fight." Vars grabbed Viktor's hand and started dragging him along. One of the punks that seems the friendliest with Vars, a man named Aksel and his girl, started laughing.
"Har Vars en tidligere kjæreste?" Aksel asks and Vars punches him hard in the shoulder for the question.
(no subject)
Jul. 6th, 2021 07:11 pm(OOC: The morning after this <--- thread contains violence and profanity.
For Nexus Prompt: 3. "If one good thing came of all that, it was this.")
It all felt so strange to have someone laying beside him every night. The three years since Trine left seemed an eternity, an endless loneliness that he couldn't shake. It haunted him most of the time. The hole she had tore through him never healed and never had a chance to while she constantly hounded him at every turn. He pushed Viktor's hair out of his face while he slept, passed out from fighting and too much drink.
They both wore wounds from earlier in the night. Vars protecting Ziggy from harassers, Viktor coming to help Vars when they turned on the Norwegian in mass, and Vars turning on them again when they tried to tear into Viktor. His head throbbed where it had been smashed into the wall, it kept him awake, as did the black bruises across his throat, and Viktor's face was slowly turning black and blue where they had busted his mouth open in the fight. That wound on Viktor's face hurt inside, almost like the wound from Trine. Trine was utter loss that could never be regained. While he knew that Viktor could hold his own after years of fighting, the image of three guys jumping him played over and over in the bassists head. What if he had lost the other punk to a knife or a gun?
He didn't want to think about it and yet that was all he could think about in the quiet of near morning. Everything dredged up emotions; loss, fear, heartache. As Viktor shifted and leaned in closer in his sleep, Vars endured fear.
Three years and he hadn't even tried to be with anyone. It was all a joke and the band knew it from all the times people had slapped him in the face or stood him up. Vars didn't care and drifted around aimlessly for years in mild to extreme disinterest in anything outside the band and playing. This might be real. The anger he couldn't control when he saw Viktor get jumped in the bar was undeniable. Knowing that he would have killed to protect him in that moment was just as true. The bloody lip and bruises continued to make him see red when he caught sight of them.
More than his own fear was in play. There would be backlash; in Britain and even in Norway, despite the culture being more accepting. Outside the band and the closed hotel room there would be consequences for closeness. Hatred of gay men was brutal in many countries and the perceived weakness might get them both jumped by other punks. The position was tenuous, the classic walking a knife edge. He couldn't help but wonder if the impulsive singer thought that far ahead.
Trine would be part of that danger. Newly married, she'd still go for his throat at any opportunity. He knew that and it hurt, burned at his pride and sense of self. The flurry of thoughts was almost too much but in the forefront was Mick telling him about the guilt of hiding and Aarne screaming for people to fuck off every time they questioned how he lived. Could there be a middle ground to being in the shadows and brazen? As a rockstar, it was unlikely to last long. Someone would get a picture and then the media would slather it everywhere about Vars having a secret lover and hiding or whatever else they decided to dump on him, on both of them and their bands. Fame was like a circus where you were a lion fighting to be the ringleader instead of at the end of the whip.
The more Vars lingered on these thoughts the more he knew the source of it was a sense that others could shame him for his behavior. Trine shaming him for moving on when she already had and the media trying to shame his choices. Surrounded by groupies and fans day in and day out, being here with Viktor every night was a choice that was made with confidence. Rebellion fueled all the thoughts after as he zeroed in on a sense of not giving a damn what others thought or saw. As a rockstar everything caused fall out unless you kept your head down and stayed mainstream. No one here followed the mainstream.
In the end only one thought remained; fighting the media was little different than fighting a bunch of thugs in a bar. Go at it together. Divide and Conquer, and when all else failed stab the bastards in the face.
For Nexus Prompt: 3. "If one good thing came of all that, it was this.")
It all felt so strange to have someone laying beside him every night. The three years since Trine left seemed an eternity, an endless loneliness that he couldn't shake. It haunted him most of the time. The hole she had tore through him never healed and never had a chance to while she constantly hounded him at every turn. He pushed Viktor's hair out of his face while he slept, passed out from fighting and too much drink.
They both wore wounds from earlier in the night. Vars protecting Ziggy from harassers, Viktor coming to help Vars when they turned on the Norwegian in mass, and Vars turning on them again when they tried to tear into Viktor. His head throbbed where it had been smashed into the wall, it kept him awake, as did the black bruises across his throat, and Viktor's face was slowly turning black and blue where they had busted his mouth open in the fight. That wound on Viktor's face hurt inside, almost like the wound from Trine. Trine was utter loss that could never be regained. While he knew that Viktor could hold his own after years of fighting, the image of three guys jumping him played over and over in the bassists head. What if he had lost the other punk to a knife or a gun?
He didn't want to think about it and yet that was all he could think about in the quiet of near morning. Everything dredged up emotions; loss, fear, heartache. As Viktor shifted and leaned in closer in his sleep, Vars endured fear.
Three years and he hadn't even tried to be with anyone. It was all a joke and the band knew it from all the times people had slapped him in the face or stood him up. Vars didn't care and drifted around aimlessly for years in mild to extreme disinterest in anything outside the band and playing. This might be real. The anger he couldn't control when he saw Viktor get jumped in the bar was undeniable. Knowing that he would have killed to protect him in that moment was just as true. The bloody lip and bruises continued to make him see red when he caught sight of them.
More than his own fear was in play. There would be backlash; in Britain and even in Norway, despite the culture being more accepting. Outside the band and the closed hotel room there would be consequences for closeness. Hatred of gay men was brutal in many countries and the perceived weakness might get them both jumped by other punks. The position was tenuous, the classic walking a knife edge. He couldn't help but wonder if the impulsive singer thought that far ahead.
Trine would be part of that danger. Newly married, she'd still go for his throat at any opportunity. He knew that and it hurt, burned at his pride and sense of self. The flurry of thoughts was almost too much but in the forefront was Mick telling him about the guilt of hiding and Aarne screaming for people to fuck off every time they questioned how he lived. Could there be a middle ground to being in the shadows and brazen? As a rockstar, it was unlikely to last long. Someone would get a picture and then the media would slather it everywhere about Vars having a secret lover and hiding or whatever else they decided to dump on him, on both of them and their bands. Fame was like a circus where you were a lion fighting to be the ringleader instead of at the end of the whip.
The more Vars lingered on these thoughts the more he knew the source of it was a sense that others could shame him for his behavior. Trine shaming him for moving on when she already had and the media trying to shame his choices. Surrounded by groupies and fans day in and day out, being here with Viktor every night was a choice that was made with confidence. Rebellion fueled all the thoughts after as he zeroed in on a sense of not giving a damn what others thought or saw. As a rockstar everything caused fall out unless you kept your head down and stayed mainstream. No one here followed the mainstream.
In the end only one thought remained; fighting the media was little different than fighting a bunch of thugs in a bar. Go at it together. Divide and Conquer, and when all else failed stab the bastards in the face.
