In this Bed of Snowflakes we Lie

by Sophia Soames

  He doesn’t know what has come over him. He doesn’t understand what his body is doing. He can’t control shit right now. All he knows is that he needs this. He needs to be as close to Erik as physically possible, and it’s frightening the strength he has in him when he really wants something.

  “Shhh, baby, it’s fine. I’m here,” Erik whispers. He gets Oskar. He always gets Oskar. Like he has some kind of freaky mindreading thing going on, as his hands are all over Oskar’s back. Strong steady strokes that make Oskar birth sounds from his throat that he just can’t control. He’s not crying. He’s not hurt. He’s just. He doesn’t.

  Just don’t let go of me.

  There is nothing graceful about how they stumble onto the bed, all legs and arms and super-soft, fleecy onesies, and Oskar can’t stay still, crawling all over Erik until he is practically straddling him on the bed, and it’s still not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

  His brain is not working. Thank God for that, because if it was, he wouldn’t be pulling the zip down on Erik’s giraffe onesie. He wouldn’t be brave enough to tug at the t-shirt he is wearing underneath. But, then, there is just skin over bones and Oskar lets his fingertips roam over the softness. The warmth. The slight curve over the flat chest where his muscles are attached to his ribcage.

  He doesn’t dare to look at Erik. He doesn’t dare to even let himself think. Instead his arms pull out of the sleeves on his cat suit, helping Erik to get the t-shirt pulled over his head. He doesn’t even realise that his jeans are undone until there are warm hands softly stroking the curve of his hips. Roaming gently across the dip in his back.

  He just needs. He needs this.

  Erik tugs at him. Strong firm tugs until Oskar is lying flat on top of him. Chest against chest. Erik’s heart pumping through them both as Oskar holds on to the man underneath him. Squeezes his eyes shut as his face is once again snuggly stuck in Erik’s neck. Skin against skin. Warmth against warmth.

  “We need to stop for a little bit,” Erik whispers. “I don’t want to embarrass myself, because I am about to come in my furry suit.”

  And Oskar suddenly doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. So, he kind of half snuffles, half giggles into Erik’s neck. Holds on a little tighter. Lets his fingers roam in Erik’s hair. Trickle down his shoulder. His lips feeling skin. Soft and dizzying under his caress. He wants to kiss. Lick. Taste.

  He’s just not quite that brave right now. Lying here in a heap on top of poor Erik who is drawing little circles with his fingers over Oskar’s back.

  “How do you always know what I need?” Oskar whispers. “I don’t even have to ask. You just take care of me when I need you.”

  Erik wants to say, “Because, I love you.” He wants to say, “Because, you are my person. You might not know it, but you are.” There are words on the tip of his tongue threatening to spill out. Words like, “Because, you make me feel like I am okay. Like it is okay to be me. Like as long as you are here with me everything is fine. You make me want to be different. You make me strong. You make me feel so damn strong.”

  Instead he says. “Because, I do.”

  He needs to stop, because having Oskar lie here on top of him is not helping his raging boner. There is too much skin. Too much Oskar. Too much.

  “Sit up, baby,” he whispers and kind of pushes them both up, until they are kind of half sitting up.

  Oskar is still on his lap. Erik, all flustered and glassy eyed.

  Oskar adds another thing to the list of things he likes. He likes when Erik calls him baby. It’s probably all the freaking baby-oxytocin swirling around in his system making him all soft. Baby. He wants to be Erik’s baby. He is behaving like one, that’s for sure, as he lets Erik pull the onesie back up over his shoulders. His face is too close. The tip of Erik’s nose is right by his. Warm soft breath on his skin as the zip fastens underneath his chin.

  “I want so much. I want to do all these things with you, but I…” Erik looks down as his voice fades and Oskar leans in. Their foreheads resting against each other as Oskar closes his eyes.

  “We don’t have to do anything. Let’s just sit here for a while.”

  Oskar wishes he could ask all the questions that are swirling around inside his head. He wishes he had answers. He wishes he knew how on earth you do this. How do you make this work? How do you deal with all the feelings that are paralysing his body right now? How the hell do you end up feeling all these things for a stupid boy? He has more sense than this. More self-preservation in his body than to let himself fall this carelessly into the depths of the urges that are singing in his body. He wants. Needs. Feels. Breathes.

  And he knows. If he only moves a tiny little bit. If he just tilts his head and goes for it. It’s so close. It is right there. Right there in front of him. To be honest it shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just skin on skin, and he has had so much of Erik’s skin on his already. A mouth on mouth. Lips on lips. Not that big of a deal, is it? It shouldn’t be, but it feels like a mountain range building up in his mind.

  He’s not brave enough. Not yet. Not now. Maybe never. And just the thought of that makes his heart want to splinter.

  Erik’s first kiss was the perfect first kiss. He has always thought that. He had been sat on the beach listening to the swell as it battered the sun kissed sand, with a girl whose name he can no longer remember, whilst laughter brewed in his chest and his brain was a little fuzzy from the excitement of it all. He was fifteen, he thinks, and hadn’t even questioned it. It had been sweet and innocent. Soft and gorgeous, her lips softly nibbling at his. Pressing gently into his until he was brave enough to kiss back. To taste and experiment and get it all wrong and fumble and laugh.

  He had walked home afterwards with his fingers tracing his own lips. Thinking it was a milestone. Another step into adulthood. Wondering what came next. Wondering what he was missing. Wondering how to figure it all out. But he had been happy. He wouldn’t change a thing.

  He wants this for Oskar. He wants Oskar’s first kiss to be perfect too, so Oskar can look back and think, Yes. Yes. It turned out fine. It turned out to be more than fine.

  Because Oskar’s never been kissed. He told Erik that, so it’s Erik’s responsibility and Oskar’s first kiss is not Erik’s to just steal. It’s not Erik’s to take. Oskar’s first kiss should be Oskar’s to take. Oskar should have the right to make this whatever he needs this to be. It’s not Erik’s to steal just because he can’t control himself. He needs to pace this. He needs to be patient. He needs.

  Fuck, he needs so much it’s painful.

  Instead, he lets his arms fold around Oskar’s shoulders as he leans in and lets himself fall into the hug that Oskar so willingly gives him. He lets himself melt into the warmth of having someone hold him like this. Slowly rocking into some silent beat that only the two of them seem to hear. Warm breath on his neck. Hands strong and firm on his back.

  And Oskar thinks. He thinks so much that he can barely see for the flashes of emotions criss-crossing his brain.

  He thinks that this might just be right. In whatever fucked up way this has happened, this is right.

  It’s so right that all the doubts screaming at him in his head, screaming that this is fucking wrong...

  Well, they can fuck right off.

  There are traditions that must be upheld. There are rules.

  Not that Erik’s parents have brought him and his sisters up in any kind of strict household. They were brought up to be free. To play and learn and ask questions and feel loved. Whatever happened, whatever went wrong, his parents always held him tight and stroked his hair and told him that he was loved. That sometimes life would be wonderful. Sometimes life would kick you in the balls. You just had to accept it.

  As long as you had your family, you would be safe. And right now, he is so incredibly grateful for his family.

  His family, who are all squabbling playfully in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner. His mum who is kneading togeth
er another batch of gingerbread dough, since someone—she waves her ladle around the room pretending to be angry, which, whilst wearing a Unicorn onesie, makes her look rather wild and unhinged—ate all the gingerbread biscuits. Well, everyone is guilty of that. Everyone knows gingerbread biscuits are like crack. Once you have one, you kind of have to finish the tin. Like seriously, you need to eat a whole tin, anything else would just be wrong.

  His dad is walking around lighting candles, humming “Jingle Bells,” under his breath in his bear onesie. Uncle Asbjørn keeps hobbling around, snapping photos of them all on his phone, no doubt posting them for the world to see on his Insta. And Oskar.

  Oskar is alive. Laughing and smiling and looking… Well, Erik can’t even find the words anymore.

  He loves how Linus has dragged Oskar over to the kitchen table where the kids are making paper decorations for the tree. Those are the rules. Every Christmas Eve, they make a decoration each for the tree. Stupid ugly paper decorations that they all laugh about whilst drinking gløgg and talking about things they have done during the year. Then, after Christmas, his mum will take all the little crinkled decorations down and glue them into her scrapbook along with photos and mementos of this year. She likes to look back at them, stroking them with her fingers and remembering the things the children thought were important. The heroes of the moment. The little quirks.

  Those are the rules. They have so many little traditions now that Christmas has almost become stressful trying to squeeze them all in. Even Holger says he wouldn’t spend Christmas anywhere else, having abandoned his earlier beliefs that Swedish Christmas far outweighs Norwegian Christmas. Instead, he cooks his Swedish Christmas Dinner on the 23rd, followed by Norwegian Christmas on the 24th, and then they descend into the massive mess that is commonly known as the great big leftover pile up that they all live off until New Year’s Eve, when Erik’s mum usually declares a ‘Food Truce’ and orders them all pizza from the little restaurant down the road.

  Rules are easy. This is what they do. A leads to B. B inevitably leads to C. Then C leads to the sofa where everyone ends up in a heap full of spilled drinks and crumbs and leftover food and a midnight feast of whatever gets brought out from the kitchen. Easy. Simple.

  What is not so simple is Oskar. Because ever since they snuck away, arms tangled around each other, something has changed. Their fingers are still laced with the fingers on the other’s hand. Erik’s head on Oskar’s shoulder. Erik’s hands on Oskar’s back. And Erik hasn’t been able to let go.

  It’s like something has clicked. That somehow. Somehow if he can just keep one piece of his body latched on to Oskar’s, then the world keeps spinning. Slowly and steadily and Erik can cope and breathe, and everything is chill. Easy.

  Then Oskar will do something unexpected, something small, like just turning to help Emilia cut something out of the paper she is holding up, and Erik will lose his grip on Oskar and panic. Pain shooting through his limbs until he can grapple and reach, and get his fingertips back where he needs them. Feeling the warmth of Oskar’s body through the man-made super-soft fleece of the ridiculous outfits they are wearing. Then he can breathe again.

  He still manages to use his shaky hands to cut out little hearts from the sparkly craft paper on the table. Criss-cross the cuts in neat rows so he can fold them together to form a little woven heart-shaped basket, like the ones they used to make at school.

  It’s almost symbolic this year, he thinks as he weaves the final piece together and opens the basket, pushing gently with his fingers so it gains body in its 3D shape. Two identical flat pieces of paper, now tangled together forever in a basket full of… he has to stop and smile. He is such an emotional basket case. A romantic twat of epic proportions.

  He picks up a red marker pen and writes along the bottom corner. Erik and Oskar, with a tiny little love heart at the end. And Oskar notices. Of course, he notices, leaning in and letting his head rest against Erik’s temple.

  “Cute,” he whispers.

  “I know,” Erik whispers back.

  “Made a stick insect snow angel.” Oskar giggles and holds up his attempt at an angel. Messy thin wings and long straggly limbs made from glittery paper.

  “Very you,” Erik replies, letting his fingertip trace the sharp cuts. The clean edges. “You are good at this.”

  Oskar just smiles. That blush creeping up again, more noticeable than ever against his white furry hood.

  “Oskar, come help me hang it on the tree.” Emilia laughs and tugs at Oskar’s hand as she holds up the thing she has created. Erik is not quite sure what it is, but he gets up and follows. Because not following Oskar around like a lost sheep is apparently something Erik has completely forgotten how to do. He just shuffles behind him like a confused kid, hanging on to the sleeve of his onesie whilst Oskar lifts Emilia up to place her decoration on the tree.

  “It’s SpongeBob SquarePants,” she declares.

  “Of course, it is,” Oskar replies. “SpongeBob is epic. Good job, Emilia.”

  God, he is cute. Erik thinks, his head swirling with a fresh batch of stupid daydreams. He wants to have kids with Oskar. Little golden curls all over the place with names beginning with O. All of them. Fuck he can’t think of a single name beginning with O now, apart from Oskar. They will have Oskar Jr. And the other Oskar Jr. And Oskarella. Can you name a kid that?

  “Your basket should go here...” Oskar says, pointing at a spare branch, “...next to my stick insect angel.”

  “Next to you,” Erik slurs, still lost in his head.

  “Always next to me,” Oskar says. He sounds serious as well. “You and me,” he says, his face a little red, his voice a little shaky as he meets Erik’s eyes.

  “Always,” Erik replies. There is no doubt in his mind now. They haven’t even kissed, but in his chest he can feel it. The way his heart flutters. His body filling with heat. The way his breath hitches and his fingers tingle. This. This is it. Always.

  The house is basically trashed come nine o’clock at night. They have had dinner. Totally ruined the Christmassy set up on the kitchen table, that is now a mess after some ill-advised food fights and dirty dishes and burned-out candles, and there are white glittery-paper cut-outs all over the floor along with masses of confetti and crumbs. And a stray wrapped toffee that Oskar quickly snaps up and pops in Erik’s mouth.

  He’s a little bit lightheaded. A tiny bit drunk on sparkling wine and beer and schnapps and Anton Berg liqueur chocolates. Another rule, apparently. Toffees for the kids and completely inedible chocolates shaped like liqueur bottles that Erik unwraps so they can play the game of guess the liqueur whilst everyone squirms in horror. Oskar gets some orange-flavoured monstrosity that he has to drown out from his taste buds with a whole glass of Ludwig’s Julebrus. He owes Ludwig. Big time. Ludwig even makes Oskar sign it on a serviette. Oskar must give Ludwig a whole bottle of Julebrus, signed and sworn on a festive napkin.

  Oskar’s mum would have had a fit. Erik’s mum just laughs and says she can clean tomorrow. They can all help clean tomorrow, so she can have a lie in. Well, everyone laughs at that, because apparently, Leila has never had a lie in in her life, so that’s not going to work. Holger claims he has done most of the cooking and is now on a permanent ‘feet up on the sofa break’ until the New Year. Einar says it’s his house and he will happily pay whoever does the washing up. And Erik laughs and holds his hands up, admitting that he’s the baby of the family who gets away with murder. He will do the washing up. Just not right now, because he has eaten so much that he is about to explode.

  There have been more presents. Erik’s mum has cried a little over the heart-patterned knitted gloves that Erik and Oskar have apparently chosen for her. Oskar has to admit they are very suitable. Soft and gorgeous in a teal blue with bright-red hearts patterned randomly over the front. Erik has done well. Erik does everything well. Even now when Oskar is full and dozy and tired and snuggled up on the sofa on Erik’s chest with arms holding him tight a
nd fingers roaming lazily over his back, he can’t help thinking that Erik has done good.

  He has made everything right this Christmas.

  He keeps fiddling with the little gingerbread decoration in his pocket. His Christmas present. Erik got him a gift and Oskar’s heart sank for a second or two, until Erik had scooped his face up and sternly said, “NO! No. No, Oskar. You don’t get to feel bad because you have nothing for me. You being here is enough, okay?”

  Oskar had opened his gift and laughed at the two little gingerbread men holding hands. Some local handicraft no doubt, but Oskar loves it. Adores it. He will keep it forever. Bring it out and let his fingers dance across the piped clay whenever he feels down or sad. Because no one has ever bought him a Christmas decoration before, and it’s a little bit embarrassing how happy it makes him.

  He doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, or of what will happen tomorrow. Because Erik says they will be going back, back to some life that seems so farfetched now that Oskar can’t even get his head around the idea that he could exist anywhere but here. Here is safe and warm and lovely, and he is someone’s boyfriend. Someone who hugs him and cuddles him and looks at him like he is… Oskar giggles to himself. He feels like a Prince in a fairy tale. Things like this just don’t happen to idiots like Oskar.

  Emmy and Elise round up people for another board game, and Erik drags Oskar into the kitchen and hands him a broom.

  “Let’s get this kitchen sorted, and then we can go upstairs if you want to.”

  Which makes Oskar blush like a child.

  Because part of him is throbbing with excitement of the idea of going up, and, well, making out with Erik and maybe getting a little bit undressed again. The idea of that is making Oskar all dizzy. Like this is a thing he is into. Well, apparently, his cock is majorly into that idea.

  Oskar has a complicated relationship with his sexuality, he has always known that. He wanks over anything. Skin and thrusts and moans and looks. Sometimes it’s just the way the hips are angled, or the way the legs are kicking out or a head thrown back in pleasure. Sometimes it can be something as lame as a voice in the background saying something simple. A few words of admiration. A command. A tender caress. And Oskar will shoot into his hands whilst groaning at the sight of his phone lying abandoned on the bed as he hobbles to the bathroom to clean himself up.