"What do you all want to eat first when we get back home?" Reynir asked. Lalli felt that familiar rustle of annoyance that came every time the freckled one spoke, but he took a deep breath, and let it relax. He's okay, Lalli told himself. He's not hurting anything. He let his shoulders sink back down.
The evergreens swayed gently overhead, like sentinels towering over their humble campsite. It was a rare moment Lalli felt safe out here, in the silent world, but for some reason tonight he did. There was a pleasant warmth on the spring wind. Crickets sang from somewhere not so far away. The world was quiet here, but not quiet in the way he'd grown used to where beasts, trolls, and unspeakable dangers were near. Just calm, at ease, as if everything sighed in relief and contentment for a moment.
He didn't understand much of what the others were saying, just a word here and there, close enough to what he knew of Swedish to get the idea across. Of Reynir's question Lalli understood "eat" and "home," and guessed the rest from context.
He didn't need to translate Sigrun's answer. From her miming taking a big drink and wiping her mouth, he guessed some sort of beer or mead. She spoke with her hands and her expressions, telling of a party with friends. Of dancing and games. Laughter and good cheer. Strangely, he coveted that. His people were typically quiet and reserved, and he exceptionally so among them. He knew that. And he knew at times he could even be cold. Better to be cold than to burn out too soon, he thought, as Tuuri's smile drifted past his mind's eye. But there were moments, such as these, he wished he could burn bright too.
Mikkel was speaking. He said something that Sigrun recoiled at, Reynir looked confused by, and Emil didn't seem to understand at all. Mikkel smiled coyly, as if he'd told a joke only he was privy to. Sigrun punched him on the shoulder. The smile grew a little, almost imperceptibly. Lalli wondered what it meant. Some weird Danish thing, maybe. He barely understood Emil's jokes, he wasn't even going to try to understand Mikkel's.
Emil went next, something about cake. Afterwards he translated for Lalli. "Back home we had this amazing chocolate cake with this really rich icing. It was so good. You remember seeing little fat Emil in the dream? That cake was why. And the lack of—gods, what's the Finnish? Oh! Exercise. Wasn't a big fan of the outdoors back then." His accent was still poor, but his wording had improved. Lalli smiled a little, a private smile for Emil's eyes only as the others listened to Reynir's answer. Something about "sheep" he picked up, but he didn't really care. He only cared about the warm sparkle that entered Emil's eye at the sight of his smile.
Emil did this, the goofy Swede. Got all happy whenever Lalli showed a sign of joy. He wanted to explain that he wasn't good at showing emotions. He wasn't good at—feelings. He'd been raised, trained, to put them aside and act. It had always got him out alive when he was working, and he'd always worked alone. He'd never needed—no, no, that wasn't right. He'd never seen the need for friends before. But now, things were different. And he... liked it? He liked seeing that sparkle in Emil's eyes. He liked seeing Emil happy. And if him being happy made Emil happy, perhaps it was a good thing to want. Happiness.
"What about you?" Emil asked. He'd half abandoned the full Finnish, and was now mixing it with Swedish in a way Lalli could just sort out. "What do you want to eat when you get home?"
Lalli put a knuckle to his chin, and looked into the fire for a moment. He thought of Tuuri's delight while shopping for sweets in the market in Mora. Thought of himself and Emil enjoying sweets together in the dream space. Thought of someday enjoying a tasty treat again with his friend, and feeling this contentment, this safety, this happiness for more than an evening. And he answered as simply and clearly as he could.
"Cake."
The others nodded in approval, and Emil smiled and patted him softly on the shoulder. Lalli let a little smile slip loose again, and patted Emil's shoulder in return, letting his fingers linger a little longer than he normally would. The warm night air, the warmth of Emil's skin, the warmth that filled his own chest, that sparkle, that smile. It was enough.
—
What's this? Scottish is writing SSSS prose! Believe it or not, I'm more comfortable writing prose than poetry, and SSSS allowed me to set sail into some uncharted territory on the poetry front. I don't often write fan-fiction, but I had an itch to write something cute about my boys, and was in a prose-y mood. Also, wonderful posts Jitter and Róisín! Your warm, delightful scenes inspired me.
