In this Bed of Snowflakes we Lie

by Sophia Soames

  Erik lets a little laugh escape and Oskar wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Another nervous little twitch Erik keeps noticing.

  “You’re okay,” he whispers and leans his head over towards Oskar’s. Lets their heads hang together for a little while. Just catching his breath.

  Oskar will be fine. It’s Erik who might just break. Because he is falling a little bit more in love with this ridiculous human next to him, every day. Every hour.

  Every minute he spends with Oskar makes his stomach twist in agony. There are so many things that can go wrong this Christmas. So many little innocent words that will spill out of people’s mouths that will give him away.

  One little word, and it will all be game over.

  And if Erik lays his cards on the table and Oskar runs in fear, or even worse says those words that Erik fears the most. The rejection. The lame excuses. The very sensible excuses.

  He knows, okay? Oskar is human. And Oskar has every right to say, “Hey, I just don’t feel like that about you.” Because in all probability Oskar is straight. The odds are stacked against him, he knows that, and it would be just his luck. For the first time ever, his heart is all in. His whole body is shivering in excitement, mixed with a healthy spoonful of terrifying fear, at the thought of just being brave enough to steal a quick kiss from those lips next to him. Instead, he watches as Oskar rubs his nose again. Shuffles nervously on the floor.

  “Almost home,” he says, trying to sound cheerful and happy, and Oskar throws him another tense little smile. “Fifteen more minutes.”

  Fifteen more minutes. Maybe half an hour more alone with Oskar. He will just have to make the most of it.

  They walk through the station, spilling out into the quiet street with just a few slow passing cars, their tyres crackling against the hard snow. Erik has travelled this route more times than he cares to remember. His head clogging with memories and scenes from his misspent youth. He has rumbled around here with kids he used to know. People who used to mean something to him who he now struggles to even remember.

  “The first time I got drunk I threw up behind the bench over there.” He points and blushes in shame. Way to go, Erik, trying to show off the quaint coastal town. Hoping that Oskar will fall in love with this little place and maybe want to come back.

  “I need to bring you back in summer when the place is full of tourists, we need to go to Alby and buy you an Alby Kringle. It’s the kind of thing people have on their bucket lists. They are just that good. The beaches are amazing. We could have a barbecue on the rocks and just sit there and chill until we get cold, and then pitch a tent and just sleep next to the water. I used to love that.”

  “I’ve never slept in a tent.” Oskar chuckles nervously. “My parents aren’t the camping type.”

  “What are your parents like?” Erik lets his arm nudge Oskar’s again. He needs to know he can. That Oskar is still his friend. Whatever happens. Hopefully. Please God, let Oskar still be his friend by tomorrow.

  “Dad is the CEO for Hästen Beds Norway division, and Mum is a Neurosurgeon.” Oskar shrugs his shoulders.

  “No shit!” Erik’s mouth is wide open. “Seriously?”

  Oskar just nods. “So, no pressure on me then. I want to go into paediatrics, I think. Maybe dermatology. Haven’t quite studied enough to figure it all out. But then, if it all goes to shit, I can always flog beds. I would probably be good at that. “

  “And here is our bus,” Erik declares, making his body curl into a silly bow, waving his arm ahead of Oskar as the number twenty bus makes its slow turn into the bus stop bay. “I wish I could have had a more appropriate transport arranged for you, but Your Royal Highness will just have to make do with the number twenty bus like the rest of us commoners.”

  “Shut up,” Oskar hisses, but his face is flushed, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners which makes Erik smile.

  “You will go to the ball,” Erik shouts out. “You must, I insist!”

  He’s having fun. He thinks Oskar is too, despite the fact that his Disney Prince constantly hides his face inside his jacket collar and mostly nods instead of speaking. Erik taps his card over the ticket reader. He taps it twice. Honest. That’s him. He’s paying for two, like a grown-up. He’s going to be all adult about this, and they get seats next to each other which makes him all warm on the inside of his heavy jacket as he lets his leg press gently against Oskar’s.

  The bus crosses over the canal to Jeløya island, and Erik points out Sjøbadet, the place he learned to swim. The quiet Helgerødgata where he saw his first movie at the now long-gone cinema. “These flats are all new,” he mumbles, not really knowing why. It’s strange being back, it always is. Like this should be home, yet he no longer belongs here. And Oskar nods politely, even though Erik can tell he is somewhere lost in his own head, his eyes staring absentmindedly into the steamed-up bus window whilst his hands fidget nervously with his gloves.

  He holds onto his arm as they step off the bus, trying to memorise the feel of his jacket. The way his breath forms clouds in the cold. How they both slip on the newly cleared paths, and the crisp air in the total darkness.

  “It never gets this dark in Oslo,” Oskar says quietly. “Too many lights in the city I suppose.”

  “It’s dark out here in the sticks. I used to carry a torch when I came home late at night, before they put up the streetlights in our road. Sometimes I couldn’t see shit.”

  “Life before mobile phones,” Oskar says dryly, bringing his mobile up to shine light on the ground before promptly losing his footing and stumbling on the sheet ice.

  Erik’s laughter echoes between the houses, on the little road leading up towards a wooded area, snow falling in small neat flakes around them as they walk. The houses are all lit up, stars and candles in the windows, open-flamed candle-pots sitting in the snow along the road, and a headless snowman gracing the turning area where the road turns into a small track into the forest.

  “The cross-country ski track starts here, just follow the tracks, it’s about four point five K until you pop back out at the top of the clearing up there, where that streetlight is.” Erik is pointing and Oskar is craning his neck to see.

  “And the red building over there is Hoppern Skole, where I went to school and my dad teaches. And here we are. Home Sweet Home. Welcome to Villa Nøst Hansen.”

  It's nothing special, Oskar thinks. Just a standard wooden freestanding house like all the others in the road. Snow piled deep around the driveway and a Volvo on the drive. But there are candles in every window and red showy curtains and lit paper stars and candle arches everywhere. The house just screams Christmas. Family. All the things that Oskar's house never screams.

  His parents’ neat house screams perfection. It screams 'look at us ,we’re pretty god damn perfect'. When they're not really. His dad works too much, his mum is a bossy perfectionist half the time, only to descend into a neurotic mess after a glass of wine, too worried about what her friends think and say and do, and Oskar. Well, there is no hope for Oskar.

  “There will be no peace and quiet from now on, but I promise they are all good people. Well, Uncle Asbjørn will ask you all kinds of questions and my sister Emmy will interrogate you like a pro, but…” Erik quietens as Oskar’s eyes are once again wide with fear. He doesn’t mean to do this. He knows he is overwhelming at the best of times, but God, he just wants Oskar to have fun. To be loved. He wants Oskar to feel what he feels whenever he is home, like he is cuddled up in this warm fleecy blanket of love and where nothing in the world can hurt you. Apart from Lego bricks on the stairs and his dad’s over-spicy mulled wine.

  So, he does the only thing he can do. He wraps Oskar up in a hug. Scoops him up and buries his face in Oskar’s scarf. The scarf that smells of soap and awesome beds and warm duvets and pillows that feel like clouds against your skin.

  “If it all gets too much, just tap me on the arm. One tap means, Help me I am struggling. Two taps mean Get me out of here now. And
three taps? That is full red alert. And I promise I will get you out of the house and have you back in your own bed within the hour. Whatever the cost. Okay?”

  “Erik, I am not a child.” Oskar sounds a little annoyed.

  “I know. But… I don’t know. I just don’t want you to worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Oskar lies. There are so many little frown lines on his face that Erik is a little bit concerned. Also, his shoulders are practically up by his ears and his jaw is locked. He is terrified. As Erik would be.

  “Come on. Let’s get this over with so we can go sit on the sofa with some of my dad’s home-made gløgg. It’s pretty lethal.”

  Oskar tries to smile again but his teeth are kind of stuck to his tongue. His mouth is dry, and his hands are clenching into fists.

  And Erik wraps his arms around him. Rubs his hands over his back, steady hard strokes through his thick jacket.

  “I’ve got you, Oskar. I’ve got your back. Always.”

  To be honest Oskar doesn’t know what he was worried about. Not with the smells from the kitchen and the noise and the warmth that is overwhelming every sense in him. He should be feeling uncomfortable and nervous. Instead, he doesn’t know what he is supposed to feel. His whole body is screaming for him to just run away, anywhere. Get out of this place so he can breathe. Hide. Just disappear. Not that he is going anywhere.

  He is wrapped up in Erik’s mum’s arms, and she has been talking to him nonstop for the last ten minutes whilst stirring the meatballs in the pan in front of her with one arm and holding Oskar tightly in a never-ending hug with the other. She is also simultaneously shouting out instructions to the many random people who have kissed his cheek and shook his hand and hugged him until he was starting to panic, and Erik’s mum pushed him into her chest and told him that she would protect him from all these lunatics. And by the way, isn’t he the most handsome boy she has ever met? Then she laughs at Erik and tells him he has done good. Finally.

  Oskar doesn’t even remember half of the things she is talking about, just standing there being squeezed awkwardly to death by this tall woman with her hair in a messy bun on her head, who smells of baking and meatballs, and a little bit of perfume and something that Oskar kind of thinks reminds him of home. Like one of his mum’s scented candles. The ones she buys online from America with weird names like Marshmallow Mistletoe and Mahogany Teakwood.

  “Mum, for heaven’s sake let go of Erik’s boyfriend. He is not yours to keep however much you try to hog him. Now let him go so I can check him out.”

  The woman talking looks a little frightening. In a good way. A female version of Erik, with the same soft sheen to her hair and those stunning blue eyes that Erik shares.

  “Hi, handsome,” she purrs and gives him a double-cheek kiss that completely throws Oskar as he ends up with a mouthful of hair and her hands around his face. “You weren’t wrong, Erik, he does look like Prince Charming.”

  She throws her head back with laughter and Erik... well, Erik has gone bright red. Looking like he wants to die when all Oskar can do is smile. Because this Erik is so far removed from The King of the Plastics in 212:B that Oskar can’t quite get a grasp of it all. There is nothing of that Erik here, just a tall boy with a red face and his floppy fringe covering his eyes as he nervously chews on the nail on his thumb and won’t look anywhere in Oskar’s direction.

  When Oskar is secretly feeling quite good. He shouldn’t be. But how can he not with all this love around him?

  “I’m Elise, Erik’s sister. Well, one of them. Emmy is upstairs changing the baby, you will meet her soon. And this tall drink of water in the corner there is my hubby Geir, the one peeling potatoes. This one here...” she says, and grabs one of the whirlwinds flying through the kitchen, by the neck of his bright Christmas jumper, “...is Ludwig. He’s mine.” She plants a loud kiss on his head and lets go of the boy in time for the kid to do a full-on jump into Erik’s arms screaming, “UNCLE ERIIIKKK!” at the top of his voice. Then there is another boy, who Oskar gets told is Lukas, and then everyone is talking about Lukas’ front tooth having fallen out, and Oskar stands in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like he is in some kind of surreal sitcom.

  “Are you any good at building Lego?” a little voice comes from behind him. It’s a girl. Well, her long hair gives her away, but she is wearing a Batman costume and holding a box of some kind of purply coloured Lego thing. With sparkly glitter things and what Oskar thinks might be fairies. Or elves.

  “Yeah?” he questions.

  “Good. Then you can help me,” she says and drags him off into the hallway.

  Oskar hasn’t seen the rest of the house, but the living room is a large and open plan, with a Christmas tree and more candles and random decorations. Knitted Santas on the sofa share the space with an elderly man who is snoring loudly. Next to him, a surly teenager in a black hoodie is on his phone under a blanket, and a man, who rises and shakes Oskar’s hand, with a cheerful, “Holger, Emmy’s hubby,” as the girl tugs at him to sit down on the floor.

  “I’m only six so I can’t read the instructions. You have to help me,” she says, and holds the box up to Oskar to open.

  “You don’t need to read Lego instructions, idiot,” the teenager grunts, and Oskar twists the box around nervously, half starting to panic as he can’t even figure out how to open it.

  “There.” The girl points. Ah. Open here.

  “Are you Erik’s boyfriend?” the teenager asks. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. Just keeps tapping away with his thumb.

  “We live next door to each other, or, his dorm, is upstairs from mine. Kind of,” Oskar starts, and then goes quiet.

  “Cool,” the kid says and sighs. “Are you gay? I suppose you must be if you’re his boyfriend.”

  “Linus!!” the man who Oskar thinks is called Holger shouts out. “That’s an intrusive question to ask. Love is Love, whatever we call it. Granny will be so cross if she hears you speaking to Oskar like that.”

  “Granny is pansexual, she told me. And she says we should ask questions if we have them. She says it’s bad for the soul to keep secrets.” The kid who is apparently called Linus hasn’t once looked up from his phone, and Oskar doesn’t know where to look. What to say.

  “Sorry about Linus, he is very direct. It’s a Hansen trait. Just like his mother. Have you met Emmy yet?” Holger looks genuinely mortified, and Oskar just shakes his head. His cheeks burning.

  “My wife is a police investigator. No stone will be unturned. I hope Erik warned you that she will probably drag you off to a corner and hook you up to a lie detector at some point, then ask you invasive questions about your intentions with her brother. It’s just who she is.” Holger shrugs his shoulders and turns back to the TV, where a ski-jumper spectacularly crashes into a pile of snow in a festive Eurosport medley of best ski-jump crashes of the year, accompanied by the tune of some festive Christmas one-hit wonder.

  “Oskar! Concentrate! Look I found the head! This is the chief elf. She’s called Star. I decided. I want to be called Star. Or Sparkle. Which do you prefer? Star or Sparkle?” The little girl tugs at his arm holding up a deranged looking Lego elf. Complete with pointy ears and pink hair.

  “What’s your name? Your real name?” Oskar tries to sound cheerful when his brain is all over the place. Scrambling to gather his thoughts. His hands shaking a little again.

  “Emilia.” She laughs. “We all have names starting with E or L. It’s soooo boooring.”

  “E names are awesome,” Erik says, and throws himself on the sofa next to the elderly man who wakes up with a cough.

  “Hey Uncle A! Whassup?” Erik laughs, and fist bumps the man who laughs like a Santa. A deep belly laugh with a warm smile and twinkly eyes under the thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

  “Oh, same, same, my boy. How is University treating you?”

  “All good. All good.” Erik looks at Oskar and smiles. Nods. Doing that little look again. The one where h
e checks if Oskar is okay.

  “And the young man on the floor here, is this your Disney Prince?” Uncle Asbjørn chuckles. “...the golden-haired boy you have your heart set on?”

  And suddenly Erik looks like he wants to die. His face crunched up in embarrassment. Fear. Like his clothes have disappeared and he is suddenly stark naked on the sofa for the world to see.

  “You’re right, he’s a handsome boy.” Uncle Asbjørn chuckles. “Now Erik be a good lad and go get me a cup of your dad’s Gløgg. I could do with one before dinner. Is that ham cooked yet?” Then he points at the TV where another skier has just crashed and burned. “Hooo, that one will have hurt!”

  I lasted an hour, Erik thinks. Well not even one hour. Less than one hour into Christmas before he was outed, and his feelings laid bare. He didn’t even get one hour of feeling like everything was fine in the world. One hour until things went to shit and Oskar started looking at him with that look.

  The one that says, “What the fuck is wrong with you, man? What the hell is going on?”

  Somehow, as if by magic, they all fit around the table in the kitchen, and somehow, Oskar gets squeezed in between Emilia and Lukas or Ludwig, or whatever the kid’s name is. Frankly, Oskar is struggling with all the names, but everyone is talking non-stop at the table, so somehow, he feels okay. Like he is not expected to talk. Like it’s acceptable to just sit here and follow the conversation that criss-crosses the table like a ping-pong match. The topics are changing with every breath and bowls of food being passed around. There are candles in every window. Christmas music softly filling the background noise, and Erik, across the table, looking like someone has died.

  Oskar tries. He tries to look at him. Tries to catch his eye, but he keeps chickening out and looking away when Erik occasionally does look his way. He doesn’t know fuck right now. Doesn’t understand anything.