[APH/DenNor] Fireplace/Only Teardrops
Fireplace
The world outside is full of snow, wetness and loneliness.
I clearly sense the things under the dim daylight, as harsh and cutting breezes bite me to the bones. On the frozen surface of the lake, I sit alone by a hole on the ice, with the fishing pole my only companion.
Little fish come, catch the food and soar up into the air. They shine in the faint sunlight for a mere second, before falling down writhing.
Shivering despite seemingly hundred layers of fabric encasing my body, how much I long for a return to that place.
Where I call home.
Where there's a fireplace awaiting.
And where he greets me with a frown and a tight hug.
Our endearing shelter looks like a Christmas gingerbread house, with white glowing snow being the creamy topping. How pleasant it is to rush towards the door and slam it open, feeling vibrant heat pull me into its arms, repelling the sorrowful coldness of the whole big world. I step into the heaven of warmth, unable to stop a huge grin from brightening my pale face. As I look at the fireplace. As I look at him.
He has changed into a different apron, with red and white stripes like a Christmas candy cane. Golden threads of hair glimmer in the glow of the dancing fire, which covers his whole slim body in an almost invisible orange cloak of light. His indigo eyes turn from the vacuum cleaner to me, who clumsily runs to the fireplace after dropping the bucket of fish onto the floor.
"Don't you remember to knock before coming in, you annoying dickhead?"
He mocks. But for me it sounds perfectly like sweet honey.
"Just can't let a stupid door waste me any second to see my queen."
I grin and pur, hastily wrapping two arms around that small figure. I feel like a tree showered in the sacred light of Balder: warm, soft, caressing, full of life and energy. (1)
"Tch, airheaded Dane..."
Norge rolls his eyes and scolds, but immediately leans into my chest. Ah, here comes the best fragrance in the world: his pleasant smell. A mysterious, but delightful mixture of woods, sea, wild flowers on mountain slopes, and perhaps a precious faint scent of liquorice tea. They all got...
"...me addicted." I whisper.
"What?" He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
"Hehe, it's... nothing."
"Wierd thing." He pouts.
"Yes, I must learn to be wierd so that we could be a match."
"What did you say, little bastard?!"
"A deranged Dane that mumbles to himself and a Norwegian sorcerer who sees and rides pinky unicorns, isn't it perfect?"
"You bloody hell I'm not like that!"
He squeezes my ears, making me jolt and cry for mercy. But it feels so good that I laugh even with tears of pain.
No matter how ruthless the blizzard outside could be, there's only light in a place called home. Where a fireplace shines. And where my precious boy shines.
.
.
.
The city always greets me and my fish with a view of vibrant life. In the summer, my job is not such a hard thing as during the season when I have to dig a hole on the ice for money. Catching fish is, strange as it may sound, still an enjoyable thing, when you work under the blue sky like a crystal sphere surrounding a colour parade of red, grey, brown and cobalt brick houses. The sun sprays its drops of light onto my body, onto the fish, making them shimmer like a chain of pearls. Bringing along the fruit of a hard-working early morning, I feel like a tourist leisurely strolling on those lovely streets. Sometimes I cannot help smiling to a passer-by, and giving the unknown person a brief but friendly "God morgen". (2)
But winter tells a different story. The sun loves to sleep in, under his thick blanket of greyish clouds. Trying to forget the icy breaths of December, I struggle to crack the frozen surface, all inches of exposed skin feel like pierced by needles. Snow is another nightmare; the white storm wails and howls, blurring my vision with thousand flakes flying like a rain of arrows. I'm all alone in the hell of white, and actually couldn't spot a single person, if there were any on the same lake, trying to make a living just like me.
During harsh days like these, the greatest reward for hours in the blizzard lies in our wooden house, which is, to my amazement, always as cute as a gingerbread house even though surrounded by a scenery of death.
It's always the amazing warmth from the fireplace to be the first to welcome me, and the frozen, dishevelled me walk into the room like a big ugly troll, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. A fire is dancing in its own hub, its shape ever changing: a flying piece of silk, waves on the sea at twilight, fireworks blooming with tiny sparkles, and more than one could imagine. Occasionally a childish thought slips into my mind while gazing at it: the fire is nothing different from a petite ballerina, whose dress keeps changing its colours under the charming stage lights. From the initial pinky shade, it darkens to something between red and mandarin, before glowing the most brightly in a corona of white and yellow.
And while I just stand there staring at the magical fire, feeling every single cell on my body heated like after a good bath, Norge will enter the living room. He will look at me with a frown, enough for me to realize I'm literally a speck of dust in this extremely neat and clean space. But the annoyance of a house-proud lover won't prevent me from grinning at him, eyes shining with joy and excitement.
"Hey Norge, you know 'The Hunger Game', don't you?"
"Yeah... Traditional lovey-dovey drama, draconian government that censors things and treats workers badly. And it all leads to a revolution. Well ironically, America never thinks someday his nation would become such a splitting image of USSR." He suddenly pauses. "Wait, what makes you turn a nerd all of a sudden? I thought you only use books as something to fall back on when you run out of toilet paper?"
"Haha you can say that again, peeing is somehow funnier than reading!" I laugh, earning a glower from him. "It's just... people say something about the heroine's costume in a parade. The dress looks like a fire, right? I just wonder... how splendid it could be. Anywhere near this fireplace of us?"
We both turn our eyes to the only source of light in the living room.
Norge's eyes somehow softens, as he mutters nonchalantly. "Yeah... who knows?"
"When I was out there in that freaking hell, I wished my coat were burning like that little girl's dress, so that it could save me from freezing like chunks of meat in a refridgerator." I smile. "But I know something even a thousand times warmer. And... I bet you know what it is." I wink.
I do not fail to notice an almost invisible tint of pink on his cheeks.
"Just cut these cheesy languages, you idiot..." He averts his eyes from mine, but opens his arms. "Come here."
Oh, how desperate I've waited to hear that statement.
I lung into his arms, wrapping my own around his slim waist. His slender arms shyly rub my back, as Norge buries his nose into my shoulder. I giggle, teasingly bite his one earlobe. Norge grunts like a kitten being poked in his sleep, but does not try to break away from my embrace. And this only makes my smile grow larger.
This is warmth.
This is home.
.
.
Tonight we sleep not on our comfy bed, but a corner of the huge carpet next to the fireplace.
The elegant ballerina has turned into a singer, as the crackling sounds of burning woods lull us into dreams. Outside, the wind is still howling, as if threatens me about the next days when I have to encounter the coldness again.
But now all I hear are the fire's sweet song, and Norge's soft, constant breaths. I smile, tucking a stray golden lock under his ear, whispering.
"Tonight's the New Year's Eve, isn't it?"
"Mm..." He sleepily utters, either to something in his dream, or to my vague question.
"Hey Norge... Nobody can make sure next year the snowstorms will stop, and the forecasts on TV suck... But it'll be okay, as long as I have you and our fireplace here. Heh... I know you're gonna rush to the toilet and vomit if you're still awake, but... even when I'm outside, I would still bring along my own fireplace. Yeah, I'm not trying to make this a riddle. It's you."
There is no answer.
He's been wandering in the world of dreams. Far from me.
Curiosity arises, I pull him closer to my chest, our fingers intertwined.
"Can I join? Picnicking alone is boring as hell."
And the music of the fire is the last thing I hear, before darkness pulls closed two curtains down my eyelids.
-End-
A/N:
(1) Balder: the God of Love and Light in Norse mythology
(2) God morgen (Danish): good morning
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