In this Bed of Snowflakes we Lie

by Sophia Soames

  She looks distraught. Exhausted. Jumpy and nervous as the beat upstairs changes and at least fifty people start to jump up and down to the tune blasting out above them. It’s deafening. Exhausting.

  “Shall I take Naomi?” a voice from behind whispers.

  Freddie is watching her with that concerned look he always gets around her. The look that wonders what state she is in. If it’s one of the days when she stands tall and flashes them that brilliant smile of hers, or if it’s one of the days when she is broken into so many little pieces that she can barely function.

  “Don’t let her wash her hands,” Oskar whispers back. Always the nerd. The textbook pseudo-doctor. The dude who thinks he knows best, when in reality he knows fuck all.

  Because, seriously, he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand the world. He doesn’t understand his family. He doesn’t know how to make friends. He never understands how people fall in love. How the whole romance thing works. Fuck, he doesn’t even understand himself.

  Instead, he slips his headphones back on and tries to drown out the world by blasting out NWA so loudly that he is pretty sure he is doing permanent damage to his inner eardrums, whilst he sloshes bleach-laden water around the floor and empties bucket after bucket into the sink.

  The chairs get slammed back down on the floor under the table, and the bucket and mop get thrown back into the cleaning cupboard to the tune of American explicit rap-lines and deep bass rhythms. He slams the front door shut with an angry kick of his bare foot, stumbling awkwardly backwards as the cold wind hits his face. It’s so fucking cold, and he can barely feel his feet.

  The sounds from upstairs seem duller as he takes his headphones off and closes the door to his dorm room. His little sanctuary. His home. His safe space where he can just breathe. Relax away all the pressure of having to be something he is not. He doesn’t have to pretend in here. This is just Oskar. In all his fucking nerdy glory, he thinks to himself as he strips his clothes off and steps into the shower, feeling his body slowly heat back up under the hot jets. He lets his mind wander for once, hoping he can find something on Netflix to take his mind off the world before bed. Something to relax him enough that he can sleep.

  He steps back into the dusky light from his desk lamp, stark naked as the day he was born, letting his hands towel dry his hair as he taps the screen of his laptop to power it back up. The mirror on the wall reflecting his body in all its... well... Oskar sniggers to himself. He’s not built, or muscular, just lean. Defined from his daily running. Slim, not because he eats well, more because he can’t be bothered to cook most of the time.

  He looks okay. He’s not butt-ugly. His hair is a mess of long blond curls, because when he cuts his hair he looks like a freak, all angles and edges. Instead, his hair now frames his face, and despite his dad’s humorous digs at him never getting a job with a haircut like that, he likes the way the long strands of hair add another layer of protection. Something else he can hide behind. Hide the skin that is mottled with scars and faded acne, the nose that his face never grew into. He’s plain. Nothing special. One of those faces that blends into the background. Never noticed and never remembered.

  Christmas star, he thinks to himself. He should buy himself a Christmas star and hang it in the window. Or one of those arched electric candle holders, just something to make it a bit festive in here. Homey. Cosy. He has nothing on the walls. His desk is covered in reference books and paperwork, the floor littered with charging cables and rubbish that he really should gather up and throw in the bin. He is pretty sure there are old pizza boxes under the bed, plates long forgotten lurking in the corners.

  The light from the laptop casts the room in light as Oskar lifts it up and turns around, ready to throw himself on his oversized bed. The only luxury he allowed himself to bring from his childhood home, his super-duper mega-comfy king-sized bed that his dad had bought him for his fifteenth birthday. It had seemed such a crazy present at the time, like his dad hinting that he was growing up and might one day have someone to share his bed with. Need space for two. Wink wink. Hint hint.

  Oskar’s bed has only ever had the pleasure of hosting Oskar. There has never been a single other human being in Oskar’s bed. Which is freaking him out as he stands there staring at the bed in front of him.

  Because Oskar’s bed is not empty. There is another human being fast asleep in Oskar’s bed. A very tall human being, wearing an oversized black hoodie and a pink bandana tied around his forehead.

  Oskar’s first instinct is to flee. Run. Hide somewhere until the thing in his bed has disappeared. He blinks. Shakes his head in disbelief and looks again.

  Nope. He’s still there. There is still a very-much-fast-asleep person in his bed, his breathing soft against Oskar’s pillow, and that ridiculous pink bandana is sliding down over his eyes.

  He moves carefully to get a closer look, then recoils back as he remembers. No clothes! He is stark naked in his own room, like a normal person would be. It’s just, this dude is there. Right there. On his bed.

  Yes, he had left his door unlocked, but then that doesn’t mean any random person can just come in and decide to sleep in his bed? Does it? Especially when the random person is flat-out drunk. Oskar can smell the alcohol now, his body recoiling at the fumes escaping along with little bubbles of spit at the corner of the dude’s mouth. Beer-scented mouthfuls of air with every breath. Every little snore.

  He doesn’t know how he didn’t realise someone was here before. I mean, the dude is not exactly quiet, snuffling and snoring and smacking his lips together in his sleep.

  Oskar’s eardrums are still ringing from having his earphones on the highest volume, and the beats from upstairs are still going strong, but still, he should have noticed. How the fuck didn’t he notice?

  There are a pair of threadbare joggers on the floor, which he pulls on, and the t-shirt on the floor looks clean enough, so he pulls it over his damp hair and tiptoes further up along the side of his bed to get a closer look.

  It’s definitely one of the guys from upstairs. The tall pretty one. The one with all the girlfriends. The one with the reputation.

  Yes, Oskar listens. He might not speak much to the other students, but his hearing is good—well, it was until today, and he will sue if his hearing is damaged from this bloody party, starting with suing the pants off this dude that has crashed Oskar’s planned Netflix marathon—and he pays attention to the stories. The tall tales of weekend shenanigans. The obvious boasting and lies. And the things that might actually be true.

  Like the whispers doing the rounds about this guy. The tall one with the messy dark-brown hair and full lips. Kisses like he means it. Great lay apparently. Can get any girl he wants. That’s what he has heard. Hangs around with the dark-haired guy with the black floppy fringe, and that lanky boy with the frizzy hair. Well, he probably hangs around with everyone. Always smiling and never alone. Never sitting on his own in the cafeteria like Oskar, hiding in the corner with his headphones on.

  No, this dude is always the centre of attention. Surrounded by people clinging to his every word. Laughing at his jokes. Staring adoringly at him as he throws his head back in laughter.

  Except this dude is now here. And Oskar hasn’t got a clue what to do.

  He could go get Freddie, he supposes, and they could probably manhandle the dude out of the room. Dump him on the sofa for the night. He is quite sure the girls would approve, and in the morning, he would wake up and find this guy on the sofa making all the girls laugh, having charmed them into making him coffee and buttering his toast and spoon feeding him their secret imported stash of Swedish Treo hangover fizz, whilst placing tiny morsels of hot buttered toast on his tongue.

  He pushes that scene out of his head with a sigh. The boy is his problem. He is in Oskar’s bed. And if he doesn’t get him out of here, things will be shit awkward in the morning, he is sure of that.

  “Dude,” he whispers, and nudges the guy’s shoulder before he can stop himself. He sh
ould think this through, make some kind of plan. Maybe wake him up gently so he doesn’t scare the shit out of the poor guy, waking up and realising he has crashed in Oskar’s bed, instead of wherever he thought he was crashing.

  He probably took a wrong turn, thinking this was Madeleine’s room. Or Ingvild’s. Or one of the other girls. Maybe he thought he could get lucky by just throwing himself in some lucky girl’s bed. Just like that. Oskar wonders if people do that, just full-on go for it and shamelessly offer themselves like that.

  Oskar shudders at the thought. It’s a mistake whatever it is, and Oskar won’t let him get away with this. Not tonight. Not now. He doesn’t need the grief, or the inevitable shaming in the morning when this dude tells all his friends that the nerd downstairs tried to get him in the sack. Lies and raw laughter trying to make light of a situation that he knows will end badly, with Oskar being the butt of every joke. The one the girls will gossip about and point their fingers at. The one that came on to one of the beautiful people. One of their people. Where Oskar just doesn’t belong.

  Because the boy is beautiful, even Oskar can see that. Soft long dark hair framing his face, freckles decorating his pale skin and those lips. Even his fucking profile is perfect, his straight nose burrowing into Oskar’s pillow.

  “Dude, come on! Wake up.” Oskar shakes his shoulder this time, but the guy is dead. Dead to the world. Not a hint of pretending to wake up. He just snores and burrows further into the pillow.

  “YO. MATE!” This guy is no mate of his. Nor will they ever be, mates or whatever, but Oskar is shouting now. Desperate. He needs to get to bed. He needs an hour of some mindless American sitcom to calm him down. He needs to sleep. Please.

  He tries to pull the guy off the bed, grabbing the dude by the ankles only to realise the guy is still wearing shoes. Big clumsy boots with heels. Ridiculous. I mean who wears shit like that in the middle of winter? It’s not like December in Oslo is the place for something that wouldn’t look out of place in a Texas rodeo.

  “Fuck,” he grits between his teeth.

  The sofa out in the main room is seriously uncomfortable. No one ever bothers to even sit on it, and even if he considers sleeping there, the bleach fumes would make him retch before long.

  It’s not like he could go sleep in anyone else’s room. It’s just not the kind of thing he could do. Not his thing. Not that he is close enough to any of the others to warrant such a request.

  He could sleep on his own floor, he supposes, except that the dude is lying on top of his duvet.

  It takes a few good pulls, but finally the duvet gives way and the dude rolls over as Oskar drags the fabric from underneath his body. He almost bursts into laughter, because the dude is now on his back, mouth wide open and the bandana has slipped down covering his eyes and nose. He looks like a twat.

  A drunk snoring twat in ridiculous boots.

  Oskar is a medical student. Oskar fucking knows what can happen. He wouldn’t be a responsible human being if he didn’t ensure that his unwelcome roommate at least survives the night.

  The boots come off his feet to reveal socks underneath. Ridiculous socks with little reindeers and Santas that make Oskar swallow another inappropriate giggle. This isn’t funny. This isn’t funny at all.

  He rolls the bandana up over the dude’s fringe, carefully removing it before tossing it aside, and straddles his body to try to roll him into the recovery position. He has done it several times in training, but always with willing and perfectly conscious subjects underneath him. Never a half-dead comatose man breathing alcohol fumes at him, making him retch in disgust.

  It takes a few goes, and Oskar gets braver as the guy is definitely out for the count. He doesn't wake up, even when Oskar knees him in the balls by mistake, trying to manhandle his shoulder over towards the mattress. But he is finally there, safely in position on his side with his hand supporting his chin, so any accidental vomiting won’t choke him to death and there is nothing restricting around his neck to hinder his breathing. His airway is open, and he is safe. In the middle of Oskar’s bed.

  Oskar wants to cry. He wants to bury his face in his hands and howl. Scream out in frustration.

  Instead, he covers the unconscious body in his warm duvet and switches off the light. Lets his own body slide in under the covers at the very edge of the bed, as far away as he can get. Oskar lies there, perched on the edge of the mattress, yet he can still feel the breath from the other man hitting the back of his neck. Soft puffs of air stroking the skin under his still-damp hair.

  He shudders. It’s hours until he finally falls asleep. Restless and terrified of what he might find next to him in the morning.

  Erik needs to learn to control his drinking. Not that he has a problem. Oh no, it’s just when he gets like he got last night. He was out of control, letting things get on top of him. He needs to figure out how to rein himself in when he can’t figure shit out, and not just drown his panic in copious amounts of alcohol.

  It’s starting to get ridiculous, and look where it’s got him. Here. On a Sunday morning with the worst headache in the history of headaches.

  There should be a packet of Paracet in his bedside drawer, and he reaches out to open the drawer only to smash his hand into the wall and wince in pain like a child.

  “Who fucking moved the wall?” he whines and rolls over so he can feel for the water bottle he usually keeps next to his bed. Wall. There is a wall wedged up against his nose. Who freaking moved his bedside table? Was he really that drunk last night that he rearranged his furniture in a drunken stupor? At least his bedding is clean, smelling softly of washing powder and… ugh. He catches a mouthful of his own morning breath and almost throws up. Fuck.

  Sitting up is too painful. His brain has obviously detached from his skull again, causing flashes of light to painfully dart across his vision as he tries to open his eyes. The curtains are shut. Thank God.

  He still catches sight of the desk, and covers his eyes with both hands, trying to get his vision under control.

  “What the fuck?”

  Someone has stolen his desktop. Both screens, and his drawing pad. Fuck, someone has stolen the lot. All his shit. And replaced his freaking unreplaceable state-of-the-art graphics set up with a fucking cheap laptop. Not only that, but there is a lamp he doesn’t recognise and… He lets his eyes dart around the room.

  This is not his room. The curtains are the same, cheap washed-out-yellow-cotton ones that the university housing society must have bought in bulk as most dorm rooms have them, but the rest. This is not his room. Fuck.

  At least he is alone in the bed, and he is desperately racking his brain as to where he could be. He can’t remember hooking up with anyone last night, and he is pretty sure he locked up his room before people started to arrive. It’s all good and well hosting epic parties, but Erik likes to wake up in his own bed the morning after, with most of his life intact. Which doesn’t seem to be the case this morning.

  At least he is dressed, he sighs, and fumbles awkwardly with his hoodie. He hates sleeping in his clothes, and now he feels overheated and nauseous. His arms almost panic trying to get the hoodie over his head, and he hyperventilates into his hands as the offending sweat-drenched jumper hits the wall and slides down onto the floor at the end of the bed.

  The end of the bed. Fuck. There are a pair of legs standing there, shiny spandex legs. Running gear. Muscular legs leading up to… Oh fuck.

  “Disney Prince,” Erik mutters and lets his whole body fall back against the pillows. Because of course. Of course, it would have to be him. How the hell did he end up here?

  “What?” the Disney Prince says, and to be honest he looks terrified. Like Erik is a full-blown vampire-werewolf-shifter monster. Or a blood thirsty zombie.

  And, to be very honest, Erik is just about to go into a long rant about zombies and that he is not one whilst he does feel like one and if he could join the world of the undead he would probably fit right in in the state he is. Becau
se he feels like death warmed up.

  “What did you call me?” the Disney Prince hisses. He looks hacked off. Like Erik is taking the piss out of him, when he is clearly not. Because Erik is dying. Mortified with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.” It’s a lame excuse for an apology. Erik knows that. But he can’t run in the state he is in, however much he would love to get up and push past the man in front of him and just disappear. Disappear and never set foot in this part of the campus again. What the hell had he been thinking?

  “I don’t appreciate you taking the piss. I don’t appreciate people crashing in my room. I have barely slept all night, and I am…” The Disney Prince is waving his arms about, then pulling at his hair and stomping around. He’s put out. That’s clear.

  “I don’t know how I ended up here,” Erik lies. He knows full well how he ended up here. He was pissed out of his head and didn’t know what the hell he was doing as usual. Well he did. But not in a good sensible way.

  “You live upstairs, don’t you? How the hell can you end up in the wrong bloody dorm on the wrong floor? I mean...” The Disney Prince is pacing the room now, his hair drenched in sweat and his face flushed. “...I went for a run an hour ago, and I would have expected to come back and find you gone. I gave you an out. Just fuck the hell out of here!”

  Well fuck me, Erik thinks. The Disney Prince has a temper. Although he looks mortified at the profanities that just spilled out of his mouth and he has that terrified look on his face again.

  “Can I just stay? Just let me have an hour. Please. I can’t face walking at the moment. You don’t happen to have any Panodil? Paracet? Ibux? Anything? I’m dying here...” Erik is. At least that bit’s true.

  Not only is he crashing in the Disney Prince’s room, he is also demanding to stay like some deranged diva with illusions of grandeur, and now he is apparently also entitled to the Disney Prince’s painkillers. Like a twat.