Chapter Text
Øystein that night was granted with the usual melancholy that recently had started to kick when he was alone.
He was barely able to keep his shit together recently with the constant sensation of dread that was sticking to him with all that shitshow with Varg. The obnoxious kid made him miss his former vocalist so much in comparison to him.
Pelle – another recurrent thought. A way too recurrent one. He had found himself becoming more and more brooding about the past and the image of his singer dead – literally, it had been tormenting his mind and his sleep. But it wasn’t just that, wasn’t it? An eerie feeling had started to creep through his body, crawling under his skin: a sick feeling of guilt, something disgusting, something Christian – something he couldn’t help.
He had started to think about the past, about that time of his life at the cabin, him, Pelle, Jan, and Jørn, no Varg, no Helvete in sight. The dampness and coldness of that shithole, the constant dirt and lack of food, the bickering, the drunken night. And guilt accompanied that sense of nostalgia.
He had been a dick to Pelle, without any trace of doubt. He had been treating him like shit and, even if his final act was made on his own, even if Øystein never really pulled that trigger in the first place, it felt like he did. He was responsible for Pelle’s death, the death of a friend. At that time, Øystein believed he had no friends – he was wrong, so fucking wrong, among other things. And here he was now: stuck inside an endless loop of guilt and remorse, leaving Mayhem, the True Norwegian Black Metal he invented in the first place, giving everything to Varg who had turned out as the absolute winner. Calling himself out – leaving that world behind with his tail between his legs, defeated as a beaten dog. He had lost it all, the empire he believed he was king of, an empire of lies, of a game that had gone way too fucking far. And now Pelle was dead, and he had been even sick enough to gain credits and power after his corpse, telling everyone he had eaten his brain, that he was carrying him with a piece of Pelle’s skull as an amulet.
He wanted to go back and make everything right – go back and focus on his music, not the crimes – not the freaking churches burnt down. Go back to having Pelle as their vocalist. Everything would have been just fine if Pelle never shot himself.
Yes, he did fucking miss Pelle – he missed his awkward staring, his soft steps on the wooden floor, barely audible, his silent presence in the house, like a cat or a ghost. But most of all, he missed the rare moments when Pelle had smiled at him. He missed Pelle making his corpse painting and scolding him for smiling too much, he missed posing with him in pictures and entering the scene as the fucking kings they were.
He missed his friend. He had been too stupid to understand how much he cared for the swede, too wrapped up in his pride and his sick game.
The doorbell interrupted his train of thought. Øystein’s heart missed a beat when he realized it was Varg, yet he had to play it cool.
When the first stab arrived at his stomach, Øystein wasn’t even surprised. In the beginning, it felt like another play of them, a game to scare and threaten Øystein to assert Varg’s absolute dominance. He was fine with that – Varg was the winner, he was the alpha wolf, whatever. He tried to tell him that, to convince him to drop it there and tell around that he had almost killed him, making Øystein look weak and pathetic. But Varg didn’t want to scare him, he was fully intentioned on killing him. There was no trace of mercy in his eyes, just the cold glimpse of excitement, of maniac satisfaction.
When Øystein found himself lying on the ground of the stairs of his condo in a pool of his own blood, his impending death was faced almost with resignation. He had deserved it, in a way. He was no saint; he had been the master of puppets in that fucked up mess he himself had contributed to creating. He had encouraged people to hate and destroy, to do evil and be evil, feeling proud at the real-life mayhem he had originated.
It was almost ironic, in a sad way. If he wasn’t in pain, Øystein would have even laughed. That was the consequence of his own actions, a single flap of a butterfly’s wing that had raised a hurricane – the chaos theory.
If only he could go back and make it right this time.
No homicides, no burnt churches, no Pelle shooting himself alone in his room. Just music, pure fucking music. Art for the sake of art without all the other shit.
He let out a long exhale, losing consciousness of his limbs. Varg’s laugh disappeared in the background while he slowly embraced that coldness, that darkness.
Was he going to Hell? If Hell existed, perhaps Pelle was in it. Maybe he was going to see him again. It must be so nice to find himself surrounded by the best men and women in history: the heretics.
I am ready. He thought, closing his eyes.
Krakstad House, 1st of April, 1991
He woke up with a start, the room spinning around him. His heart was hammering madly in his chest, oxygen lacking from his lungs.
What the hell happened?
Was it all a dream? Øystein brought his hands up, staring at them in disbelief. He touched his face, his hair – the sensation was too real. He was alive, Varg never killed him on the staircases of his condo. Grinning madly, the young man looked around himself, noticing with a shock that he wasn’t in his flat in Oslo. He recognized the familiar wooden walls of Krakstad's house, the metal posters on them, his bed, and his guitar, laying in the corner of the room.
Was he dreaming? Was he in purgatory or something?
Hopping out of his bed, his bare feet were welcomed by the cold sensation of the wooden floor. He remembered the feeling of cold in that badly heated cabin, the creaky pavement, and the damp walls. Shivering, Øystein reached for a random pair of sweatpants and a sweater. He put on an old and dirty pair of socks and gingerly went downstairs.
If it was a dream, it felt goddamn too real and it was frightening. Everything was exactly as he remembered, even the smell of that place. Judging by the feeble light outside and the eerie quietness of the house, it must have been early morning. His suspect was confirmed by a collapsed Jan on the couch, abandoned beer cans all over the floor around him.
“Jan!” he kicked the couch, startling the slightly younger version of his drummer.
“What the fuck?!” he groaned, raising in a seated position, moving some beer cans on the way. “What’s wrong with you, Øystein?!”
“Which year is that?” the guitarist asked, receiving a harsh glare in response. “Is this some sort of prank? Lemme sleep and fuck off, dude.”
Alright – perhaps he wasn’t dreaming, everything felt too real to be a dream. Heart pounding madly in his chest, Øystein climbed upstairs to bolt toward Pelle’s room. What if he was still alive?! What if somehow Satan listened to his prayers and got him back in time?!
He had never felt that anxious in his life, not even before the first Mayhem concert. He slammed the door open, not caring if Pelle was doing anything weird or gross alone in his room. Which he wasn’t – because the room was empty.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where is he?! Where is he?!
What if he had traveled back in time to a dimension where Pelle never existed?! That would be a hell of a prank. The guitarist sprinted back to the living room downstairs, kicking again the couch where Jan was snoring loudly.
“Jan!”
The drummer was even more pissed, understandably. “Screw you, man! Let me sleep!”
“Where is Pelle?!”
“Uh?” The concerned tone of voice of Øystein must have caught some of Jan’s attention. He opened one eye and scoffed; he wasn’t Pelle’s biggest fan. “The fuck should I know ‘bout your pet?”
My pet. Those words burned under Øystein’s skin, but, at least, they were another confirmation of the fact that he had indeed traveled back in time. Pelle was there, somewhere.
“He’s not in his room.”
“Fuck! I don’t fucking know – you know he wanders in the woods sometimes. Go find him and stop bothering me, dickhead.”
Right. Pelle used to wander in the woods alone. How could Øystein not think about it? Perhaps he was too excited to reason like a sane person. Without caring about putting a jacket on or even a pair of shoes, Øystein ran outside, his feet getting wet with the contact of the damp soil, his breathing letting out soft puffs. He ran, full of nervous energy, looking for a blond head between the trees.
I feel like I’m dying. Maybe I will die when I meet him, maybe that’s why I’m here in the first place. To see him again, one last time, before I definitely go to Hell.
Bubbling, erupting anxiety swallowed his chest while he looked for the singer, fearing so much to be stuck in some sort of nightmare, to be destined to search without finding him. Øystein froze when he spotted blond hair in the distance, instantly changing his direction toward the figure of who must have been Pelle, without any trace of doubt.
Pelle was standing in the center of a nearby pond, the water covering him to his waist, giving Øystein the sight of his naked, pale back. The reason why the swede should be in a freezing pond with a chilly temperature outside was out of Øystein’s knowledge, but it didn’t matter because Pelle was there and was alive, flesh and bones!
The vocalist turned his head, hearing Øystein’s steps on the dry twigs and frowning in his direction. The guitarist stopped, catching his breath back while staring wide-eyed at the ghostly figure of Pelle. Immersed in that black swell, surrounded by a grey sky and eerie trees, he looked almost eternal, like nothing belonging to the living world. His blonde hair arrived at his chest, his white marble chest. He looked like a ghost but, at the same time, way too fucking real.
Øystein grinned, ecstatic.
“Pelle!” he shouted, receiving a suspicious, skittish glare in response from the aforementioned boy. Øystein couldn’t care less. Without thinking, he went on, walking inside the pond of water, freezing his balls off but it hardly mattered. Pelle stared at him with furrowed brows, paralyzed and a little bit jittery, as if he was considering if he had to bail or remain where he was. Despite hating cats, the swede was so much like one: a silent presence in the house, ready to vanish into thin air when it occurred.
The thought made Øystein giddy. He laughed, stepping into the mud and through the water until he reached Pelle who had not moved a muscle. He was there, for real, breathing carefully, releasing puffs of air through his nostrils.
“Pelle, fuck! I can’t fucking believe it!” Øystein rambled, finally reaching the singer and cupping his cheeks into his icy hands. Pelle startled at the touch but didn’t move, keeping staring at the guitarist with furrowed brows.
“Pelle!” Øystein was about to cry, not sure if in happiness or something else. He had seen Pelle’s corpse. He had taken a picture of Pelle’s corpse. He had been bragging about it. He had been so evil, so sick. But not in this timeline, in this timeline Pelle was alive, standing right there in front of him. Scowling – but alive. That was all that mattered.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted, laughing madly and bringing his forehead to the boy’s, not caring if he was acting like a total madman.
I missed you; I missed you more than I could even realize. I missed you every freaking day of my life and I was too stupid to admit it to myself. I was a fool, but now you are here. You’re ok. A living being.
“Øystein,” Pelle’s low and cold voice collected his attention. He spoke a few inches from Øystein’s face, not moving but still glaring even at such a short distance. “What are you doing?”
“Uh?” Øystein moved back a little, never leaving the grip on the blonde’s cheeks. Pelle’s eyes were cold and full of disdain, and that was when Øystein remember how badly he used to treat his vocalist, constantly bullying and humiliating him at every chance. Pelle loathed him, and he had all the right to do that.
“Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?” Pelle’s voice was flat, suspicious. Yeah, it was understandable. He had all the reason to think that Øystein was up to something.
“I… I just…” Fuck – stammering was so out of Øystein character, but he was truly completely caught off guard.
I saw your corpse. I couldn’t stop thinking about it – about you. I saw and took pictures of your fucking corpse. I thought it was cool. It was brutal. I thought it would have turned us fucking legends. I was wrong.
Pelle kept glaring in silence. There was a fierceness in his piercing gaze, it made Øystein feel skinned alive. Sometimes his vocalist truly seemed a creature from another dimension.
“What are YOU doing here?!” Øystein chuckled, moving his hands on the blonde’s bony shoulders and squeezing them. “Do you want to freeze to death? Not today. Let’s get back inside, ok?”
“What do you care?” Pelle hissed, venomously. “You constantly tell me to make it over. To end my miserable life. What do you care if I die or not?”
A shiver ran through Øystein’s spine. He thought he didn’t give a shit about his singer’s well-being, he thought he had no friends. Only bandmates. He thought many stupid things.
Yet, the awkwardness was finally kicking in, making him feel exposed and utterly stupid. He couldn’t say it out loud.
“We have rehearsal today.” He made up the first excuse that popped into his mind, smirking slyly, trying to gain the pretended confidence of his old self. “And I don’t want you to fuck up your voice.”
Pelle seemed more convinced. He scoffed and pushed Øystein out of the way, walking toward the pile of clothes left on the bank.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” he spat, before emerging from the water. Øystein swallowed the lump in his throat and pretended it didn’t sting. Pelle had all the reasons to hate him.
I will change that. He promised to himself, clenching his fists. I will make you un-hate me and I will get those suicidal ideas out of your mind. I’m gonna be what I wasn’t: a decent friend.
He looked at Pelle walking out of the water, drops dripping on his long, bare legs, the tips of his hair wet and stuck to the curve of his spine, waterdrops running on the pale skin, on the soft curve of Pelle’s skinny ass.
A wave of heat struck Øystein’s cheeks when he realized that he was staring at his singer’s ass. It was natural to be curious about nakedness. It was not a big deal. Clearing his throat, Øystein waited deliberately for the swede to get dressed, avoiding prying at his body bashfully.
Fuck – what the fuck was wrong with him?! He shouldn’t stare at another dude’s ass. With stinging shame, Øystein walked out of the pond with his eyes glued to the ground. It hardly mattered – the priority now was to change the course of history and save that blonde freak from the infamous destiny that had happened before. That was the second chance he had always hoped for.
He was going to make it right, for Pelle. He deserved it.