playing: "Dust Bowl" - Ethel Cain Unreleased
The silence after that night was louder than anything he’d ever screamed. A few days. That’s all. Not weeks, not months. But in the static space between, time buckled and stretched and tore. Her brain kept circling like a vulture over his words on the bridge—“You remind me I exist.” They played on loop in the back of her skull, tape hiss and all, warped and grainy and painful in its repetition. She didn’t see him at Helvete. Didn’t hear from him. Not even a knock, not even a breath down the phone line. Nothing. So when there was a knock—loud, insistent, late—she froze. It was almost midnight. Her tea had gone cold. The only light in the apartment came from the orange spill of the kitchen and the dull grey of a paused VHS tape in the living room. A cigarette burned low in the ashtray beside the window, its ash trailing like time unraveling.
She moved slowly, deliberately. Part of her wanted to ignore it, pretend she didn’t hear. Pretend she wasn’t still holding on to that moment on the bridge, to the weight of his ring in her coat pocket. But when she opened the door, all of her hesitation dissolved like smoke. Euronymous was leaning against the doorframe, eyes glassy and bloodshot, hair wild from the wind and his own hands. He reeked of cigarettes and something sharper—vodka, probably—and his cheeks were red from the cold. His body swayed slightly, not quite able to decide whether it was going to stay standing or collapse entirely. He looked at her like she was the last thing anchoring him to the world. “I fucked up,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, throat dry. “I said too much. Or not enough. Or both.”
She stepped aside without a word, and he staggered inside. She closed the door behind him and turned, only to find him standing there in the middle of her living room, hands trembling slightly as they hung at his sides. “I thought I could wait,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Give you space. But everything—everything I do just comes back to you. Your laugh. Your shitty coffee. The way you—” His voice broke, his eyes finally meeting hers. “You’re in everything now. And I don’t know how to be normal with that.” She stepped closer, cautious, her chest aching. “You’re drunk.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I thought it’d shut it off. The noise. You know?” There was a long silence. Just the hiss of the VHS tape, still paused on some forgotten frame, the muted hum of the radiator. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
And then something broke.
“I loved Pelle,” he said suddenly, sharply, like it hurt. “I loved him. And now I look at you and I—God—” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I can’t lose again. Not like that.” His voice cracked open, raw. “You make me want to try. You make me scared.” She didn’t realize she’d moved until her hands were on his face, thumbs brushing over the tear-tracks already carving their way down his cheeks. He leaned into her touch like he’d been starved for it. And when she kissed him, it wasn’t sweet or soft or planned. It was frantic. Messy. Their lips collided like an apology and a confession at once, months of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight. His hands gripped her waist, desperate and shaking, while hers tangled in the fabric of his coat.
She tasted the vodka on his tongue, the salt of his tears. He tasted like every bad decision she’d ever wanted to make twice. And then, just as suddenly, it was over. He rested his forehead against hers, panting. “I didn’t come here for that,” he whispered. “I know,” she said, voice trembling. They stayed like that, breathing the same air, suspended in the haze. And then the routine again. By morning, the chaos had settled into quiet. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to. They smoked two full packs of cigarettes between them, curled on her floor with the windows cracked open to the Oslo cold. He played with her hair as she read aloud random lines from an old photography book.
They ate leftovers. Watched two movies in a row. Barely spoke. But he didn’t leave. And she didn’t ask him to. The kiss lived in the silence between them, but neither of them tried to press against it. Not yet.
The dark apartment was lit only by the occasional flicker of the muted TV and the cherry glow of their cigarettes the moon light casting some light in through the big window in the living room. They were sprawled across the living room floor, surrounded by ashtrays, empty mugs, and a blanket that neither of them was using properly. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, and his hand idly played with the strands of her hair, looping them around his fingers and letting them fall again. She looked up at him, the curve of her mouth twitching at the sight of his concentration on something so absentminded. “You always do that when you're deep in thought,” she said softly.
He blinked. “What?” She reached up and tugged gently on a piece of her hair caught in his fingers. “That.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Right.” There was a quiet beat before he added, “I told my family about you.” She froze. “What?” He shrugged, trying to play it off, but his ears were pink. “Last time I visited. My mom kept asking if I was seeing anyone. And I—I told her about you. Not everything, obviously. But… enough.” She sat up slowly, folding her legs beneath her looking down at him. “You did?” He nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “She was excited. Told me to bring you by sometime. Said she hasn’t seen me look this ‘light’ in years. My little sister already made a joke about whether you'd survive a family dinner with all the black metal posters in the dining room.” Her brows lifted. “Wait, there are black metal posters in the dining room?” “Don’t ask,” he muttered, laughing. “My dad framed one of my flyers and put it next to a crucifix just to ‘balance the energy’ in the house.”
She laughed, and it made something flutter in his chest. It quieted again, comfortably, until he spoke once more. “About the kiss…” She stilled, but didn’t look away. “Yeah?” He swallowed. “I didn’t regret it. I meant it. Even if I was—fucked up and tired and full of every bad feeling at once, it still felt… right.” She looked at him for a long moment. “I didn’t regret it either.” His breath left him slowly, like he’d been holding it since. “I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I don’t think I even know how to be… good at this.” She reached out, fingers brushing his, intertwining slowly. “We don’t have to know. Not yet.” He looked down at their hands, then back at her. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”
The rehearsal space was its usual chaos—cables snaking across the floor, half-empty bottles of beer and soda littering the amps, Hellhammer pounding away behind the kit as Occultus adjusted his mic stand. y/n sat cross-legged on the battered couch near the wall, camera in her lap, black hoodie drawn tight around her, snapping occasional shots in the dim light when no one was paying attention. Euronymous had smiled at her earlier, the soft kind—the one that didn’t quite reach the surface when the others were around. Varg showed up late, as usual. He strode in wearing that smug sneer, tape in one hand, a cigarette already half-finished in the other. “Sorry. Some of us have actual things to do,” he said loudly, mostly toward Euronymous. “You mean playing synths alone in a basement and reading about fire?” Hellhammer muttered under his breath. Varg ignored him. He moved to lean against a crate, eyes sweeping the room, briefly resting on y/n. “So. I was thinking. The next Mayhem record needs to go bigger. I want the Nidaros Cathedral on the cover. In flames. Real flames. Real church. We torch it and get someone to shoot it for the artwork.”
Everyone paused. Hellhammer raised an eyebrow. Attila scoffed. Euronymous’s voice was sharp, flat, almost bored. “You're out of your fucking mind.” “No, I'm just the only one here who actually believes in anything,” Varg bit back. “You’re all talk. You sell rebellion and nihilism in a record store, but you still play it safe. You dress the part, but that’s all it is—costume.” Euronymous turned from tuning his guitar, slow and steady. “Say that again.” “I said,” Varg stepped forward, “you’re a fake revolutionary. You want chaos but not consequences. You built Helvete so you could be king of something small. And now that things are getting real, you’re scared. She knows it too.” y/n's stomach dropped. Euronymous’s shoulders tensed. “Leave her out of it.”
Varg smirked. “Why? She’s part of the act, isn’t she? The soft spot. Your little secret normalcy. What would Dead say, huh? You falling for someone who listens to fucking Hole and takes pictures of flowers on her porch?” Everything in the room stilled. Hellhammer stood up halfway. Attila looked between them, frowning. Euronymous’s jaw flexed once before he glared at Varg.“Shut your fucking mouth.” Varg’s smirk cracked into something darker. “Or what? You’ll cry about it in your notebook? Go ahead. as if you would hit me. and if you did, it won’t make you any less hollow.” Reader had already stood, heart pounding.
“Øystein—” He didn’t turn to her, not yet. His fists were balled. But he stepped back. Barely. Euronymous looked like he was burning from the inside out. “You ever say anything about her again,” he said, voice low and cold, “and I will fucking kill you. Don’t test me, Kristian.” The air stayed brittle for another long second "my name is Varg!" he roared as the others shook their head preparing to start playing. Euronymous still didn’t look at anyone. Not even her. after they were done recording, Varg scoffed and walked off toward the back exit, muttering something in Norwegian that none of them cared to catch. she walked up quietly, close but not touching. She could feel the tremor running through him. “I didn’t mean to cause—” He cut her off, finally looking at her, something unreadable in his eyes. “You didn’t,” he said hoarsely. “This is on him.”
The drive out of Oslo was quiet—too quiet. Rain kissed the windshield in faint rhythms as the city lights gave way to pine forests and old roads winding through sleepy terrain. Euronymous kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting in a tight fist against his thigh. His knuckles were pale from the pressure, his jaw unmoving. y/n hadn’t spoken since they got in the car. She watched the side of his face, the set of his mouth, the way his eyes never left the road. The tension in him was palpable. Like if she reached out, she might touch something shattering beneath the surface.
It wasn’t until the headlights passed a sign marking the next town that she finally spoke, voice barely above the hum of the heater. “Are you okay?” A beat. Then two. “I don’t know,” he answered, his voice rough from disuse. She waited, giving him room. He exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She shook her head. “Don’t apologize for defending me. You don’t have to defend me, you know.” “Yes, I do,” he said, sharp and certain. Then softer, “I want to.” her heart ached a little at that. You looked out the window. “I know you said your family knows about me. Are you… sure this is a good idea? With everything going on?” His grip on the wheel relaxed, just slightly.
“They’ll like you,” he said. “My mom already does, and she hasn’t even met you. My sister thinks it’s cool I have someone who puts up with my bullshit. She told me not to fuck it up.” You smiled, letting your shoulder rest lightly against the door. “I’m not really used to families being... warm.” He glanced at you then. “You don’t have to be used to it. Just... let them be kind to you.” You nodded, letting the quiet settle again—but softer this time. No longer heavy. Just two people in a car, headlights flickering across the dark, carrying them toward something uncertain and unfamiliar.
Maybe even good. The house stood low and quiet at the end of a gravel driveway, framed by soft yellow porch light and thick trees that bent in the night breeze. You stepped out of the car slowly, heart drumming beneath Euronymous’s black and blue sweater. He lingered beside you, unusually hesitant, eyes flicking toward the front door. “They’ll love you,” he said, but his voice held a flicker of nerves. Before you could answer, the front door opened. A woman stepped out onto the porch—petite, with a gentle face and brown hair swept into a bun. Behind her, a girl about fourteen peeked over her shoulder, already grinning.
“Øystein!” his mother called, descending the steps. “You didn’t tell me she was this beautiful!” You barely had time to register the compliment before she was wrapping her arms around you, warm and lavender-scented, like an embrace you didn’t know you’d been starving for. It knocked the breath out of you in the softest way “Thank you for coming,” she said into your shoulder, voice thick with feeling. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.”
Euronymous looked at you like he was seeing something quietly sacred. His sister waved excitedly, then pulled you in next, immediately launching into rapid questions about your job, your camera, your favorite records. Her warmth came easy, no effort needed. Inside, the house was cozy and full of mismatched charm—soft lighting, old framed photographs, the smell of stew still lingering from dinner. They made you tea. His mother gave you slippers. His sister stole your jacket to try it on and then refused to give it back. His father discussed some old authors with her.
And Euronymous just… watched. Not with suspicion or guarded pride like he usually wore around others. Just quiet awe. Later, when his mom and sister went to prepare dessert and you offered to help but were shooed away, his dad called him out back to help with firewood. The sky was full of stars. Cold enough to see their breath “You’ve changed,” his father said after a minute, handing him a log. “Good change.” Euronymous scoffed. “I still run a record shop you pay for and my band hasn't released anything in a while, Papa.” “I meant You smile more.” Euronymous didn’t respond. Just tossed a piece of wood onto the pile. His dad pulled a small, worn ring from his pocket. Gold, plain, but softened with time and memory. “I gave this to your mother before we were married. Didn’t have much money. But it was enough.”
He handed it to Euronymous without ceremony. “Keep it,” he said. “For when the time’s right. You’ll know.” Euronymous stared at it. His throat felt dry. His fingers closed around it like he was afraid it might vanish. When he walked back inside and saw you laughing at some joke his sister made, his mother’s hand resting fondly on your arm, he slipped the ring into his jacket pocket. Maybe someday.
Later that night, back in his childhood bedroom, everything had the stillness of something sacred. You lay curled on his old twin bed, the blankets thick and warm, smelling faintly of cedar and old books. The dim light of a small lamp cast soft shadows on the pale walls—band posters still tacked up, a few old records leaned against the bookshelf. A photo of him and his little sister, smiling with ice cream-stained mouths, sat framed on the desk. Euronymous sat beside you, one leg tucked under himself, watching you scroll lazily through photos you’d taken on your camera earlier. The corners of his mouth lifted when he caught one of Faust making a stupid face with his tongue out at the pub, another of his sister trying on your sunglasses and dramatically posing. You’d even gotten a blurry one of him and his mom mid-laugh in the kitchen, her hands flour-dusted, his eyes soft.
He looked over at you, brow gentle. “You’re good at this,” he said, and his voice didn’t have that usual edge. Just truth. You smiled. “They’re easy to take pictures of. All of you. You’ve got good faces.” He gave a small laugh, and you could feel the warmth of it settle in your chest. You shifted, resting your head against his shoulder. “They love you so much,” you murmured. “They’re my people,” he said, softly, almost like he was surprised. “But… I never thought I’d bring someone back with me.” You tilted your face up to look at him. “Are you glad you did?” He met your gaze, quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m really fucking glad.” You sat in silence, his arm moving to wrap around you instinctively. You fit there easily, breathing in sync. The world outside was still. All the noise—the band, the studio, Varg, Oslo, the burnings—fell away in this moment.
“I kept waiting to feel like I didn’t belong,” you whispered. Euronymous turned slightly, his voice low. “You don’t have to feel that here. Not with them. Not with me.” Your fingers found his. He let them, let them intertwine. “I don’t remember what it feels like to have a mom fuss over me,” you said, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t know I missed it.” “I saw the way you looked at her,” he said. “Like you were trying not to get used to it.” You smiled, a little watery. “Can you blame me?” He was quiet for a while. Then he pulled you closer, so you were tucked against his side, your legs tangled with his, his hand brushing gently through your hair. “You belong here,” he said into the top of your head. “You do.”
And when you looked up again, he was already watching you, like he hadn’t stopped. You kissed his cheek, soft and slow. He closed his eyes at that. Just held you tighter. That night, neither of you said I love you, but it clung to the air between every breath. In the sound of your laughs. In the way he curled around you when the lights went out. In the way your fingers stayed laced even after you both drifted to sleep. And the ring—still warm from his father’s hand—sat safely tucked in the front pocket of his leather jacket, waiting.
The next morning came softly, with the kind of peace neither of you realized you’d needed so badly. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tile, glinting off coffee cups and butter knives. The smell of cinnamon, yeast, and brewed coffee drifted from the oven and pot, filling the air with warmth. You and Euronymous padded downstairs, still in sleep-wrinkled clothes—him in a plain black t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, you bundled in his beige sweater again, hair pulled up loosely. His mother was already bustling around the kitchen, humming under her breath, while his little sister peeked up from a book at the table and grinned when she saw you both.
“There’s the happy couple,” she teased. “Shut up,” Euronymous said around a yawn, ruffling her hair as he passed. His mom waved you both toward your chairs. “Sit, sit. Breakfast is almost ready. I hope you’re hungry.” The table was a simple spread of comfort: warm bread, homemade jam, slices of cheese and soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon buns straight from the oven, and mugs of fresh tea and coffee. You felt your shoulders loosen just sitting down. Conversation was easy. His mom asked you about photography—“You’ve really got an eye for detail, I can tell”—and his sister wanted to know what kind of music you actually liked before you got tangled up in all this black metal madness.
Euronymous just watched you at first, soft smile playing on his lips as you talked with his family like you’d always been there. He joined in eventually, telling an embarrassing story about how his sister used to put bows in his hair when they were kids. You all laughed so hard his dad nearly choked on his coffee. When the meal wound down, and plates were cleared and hugs were exchanged at the door, his mother lingered in front of you. She looked at you with that kind of tenderness that felt like home. “You’re good for him,” she said simply, brushing a hand down your arm. “He looks at you like he’s finally come up for air.”
You blinked back emotion and nodded. “Thank you. I really… I really love being here.” Euronymous squeezed your hand tight when you stepped outside. He was quiet as the car pulled away from the curb, the family waving you off from the porch. The drive back to Oslo was full of that soft silence again—the kind that didn’t need filling. You kept your fingers laced between his as you watched the trees blur past in snowy stretches. Once, he glanced over at you with a look so gentle you almost didn’t recognize it. “Thanks for coming with me,” he murmured. You smiled. “Thanks for bringing me.” He looked back at the road, but his grip on your hand stayed firm. A small curve of his mouth still lingered, like a secret he was keeping just for you.
They hadn’t meant to stop at Helvete.
The plan was to drive straight back to Oslo, maybe grab takeaway on the way, crawl back into her bed with records spinning until nightfall. But as they crossed into the city, Euronymous took a sharp turn down the narrow street that led to the shop, muttering something about checking on the guys. The storefront sat as it always did, shadowed under cloudy skies, the black metal sign overhead a little rusted now, snow crusted at the base of the steps. The bell above the door jingled faintly as they stepped inside.
Hellhammer and Metalion were already there—leaning against the counter, both looking unusually tense. The air was heavier than it should’ve been. “What?” Euronymous asked flatly, eyes narrowing. They hesitated, and that was all it took. Hellhammer broke it. “Varg’s been arrested.” Silence snapped tight. Euronymous didn’t speak for a second. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. He looked at them like he hadn’t heard right. “For what?” Metalion glanced toward the door. “The church burnings. And some other shit. Cops raided his place early this morning. It’s on the radio.”
Euronymous froze. Then laughed. A single, humorless sound. “That little rat bastard,” he muttered, voice starting low but rising with venom. “He was supposed to keep it quiet.” He slammed his fist down on the counter, rattling the tapes. “He just had to run his mouth. Ruin everything.” You watched him unravel—eyes glassy, pacing now, hand in his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “I should fucking kill him,” he spat, voice shaking. “Make a snuff film out of it. He’s obsessed with me anyway, might as well give him the ending he wants.” Nobody spoke. You stepped forward gently, fingers brushing his wrist. “Let’s just… go. Come on. Let’s go home.” He blinked at you, chest still rising and falling too fast. But after a second, he gave in—letting you tug him toward the door, his body trembling with rage as you made your way back to the car.
Back at her apartment, it was quiet. He’d thrown his coat down, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and was now sitting on the edge of her bed, hunched forward like the fire had drained out of him. You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, heart cracking a little at how small he suddenly looked. “You know…” you said slowly, “you still have clothes here from, like, three visits ago.” He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed. You walked over, toeing off your boots. “Might as well stop pretending you don’t live here most of the time.” He stared at you. And you softened. Sat down beside him. “I’m not saying unpack everything right now. I’m just… saying maybe it’d be easier. If you had your stuff here. If you were here.”
He didn’t speak for a second, just looked at you like you’d handed him something warm after standing in the cold too long. Then he leaned in slowly, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “You really want me here?” You turned your head, kissed the crown of his hair. “I think you already are.” His hand slipped into yours.
His toothbrush beside hers in the cup by the sink. His coat on the same hook every night. A pair of his boots, scuffed and slouching, lined up beneath the radiator. She found his old sweaters folded in with her laundry, her books sitting next to his cassettes. There was no announcement, no decision. Just a slow spill of him into every corner of her space. One morning she woke up to find him in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, trying to figure out how her coffee machine worked, hair sticking up wildly as he squinted at the buttons like they were plotting against him. She leaned in the doorway, smiling sleepily. “Need help?” He glanced up, half-proud, half-defensive. “No. I’m a grown man.” “You’re pressing the power button over and over.” “I know.” They drank the terrible coffee anyway, legs tangled together on the couch, him reading aloud pieces of an old black metal zine while she tried not to laugh too loud with her cheek resting on his chest.
He started staying in when she had errands to run—cleaning up a bit, cataloguing tapes, sorting through demo submissions like it was some small ritual. Sometimes he’d light incense, play records from obscure Polish bands, and by the time she came back he’d be on the floor with his hair tied up, scribbling down new riffs in a battered notebook. “You trying to start another band?” she’d ask, nudging his leg with her foot. “No,” he muttered, chewing his pen. “Just… keeping the blade sharp.” They grocery shopped together now. Had a designated “takeout drawer.” She noticed how he always remembered to buy the tea she liked, even though he hated it. He noticed how she moved around the kitchen—quiet, soft, always humming something under her breath—and he’d pause whatever he was doing just to watch.
They made dinner together sometimes, badly. Pasta clumped. Sauces scorched. One night the smoke alarm went off, and she had to open the windows while he flailed around with a dish towel, cursing in Norwegian. They fell asleep on the couch more often than not, movie credits long finished, limbs wrapped up like ivy. Once, she woke up to find him brushing her hair away from her eyes, face soft in the glow of the television. He didn’t realize she was awake. “You’re home now,” he whispered, voice barely there. She closed her eyes again, pretending to still be asleep. The key was already warm from his pocket when he slid it into the lock, the jangle of his keychains—an old guitar pick drilled through and a tiny rusted skull—familiar as a melody.
He didn’t even think about it anymore. He had a key. It hung on the same hook as hers by the door, next to a faded Polaroid of the two of them, blurry and off-center. One of those photos she’d snapped without warning. He’d grumbled about it at the time, but he never took it down. The keychain was his own. No shared neutral plastic or borrowed spare. It was his—because this was his home now, too. The guys started showing up more often. At first it was just Hellhammer, crashing on the floor with beer and chips after late rehearsals. Then Faust would stop by with something he burned onto cassette, tossing it on the table like a peace offering. Metalion brought beer. Occultus brought weird energy and incense. Even Varg had shown up once or twice before the arrest.
And none of them called it her place anymore. They called it theirs—subconsciously at first, and then deliberately. “You at your place?” Hellhammer would ask. “You guys got any ashtrays left at your place?” Metalion teased once, eyes flicking to the mountain of cigarette butts in a cracked dish. It felt strange and easy all at once—Euronymous sprawled out on the couch in socks, her camera on the table beside his latest notebook of song fragments. The guys would show up, argue, laugh, throw things. She’d make tea or lean in the kitchen doorway just watching, until one of them roped her into the chaos. Faust started calling her den eldste—the eldest—even though she wasn’t. Said she kept them all from burning the apartment down. She took it as a compliment.
There were still quiet moments—after the guys left, and it was just the two of them, curled up on the couch, her head on his shoulder while his fingers absently traced her knee through the fabric of her jeans. No words. Just silence. Just breathing. There was no conversation about what this all meant. No formal label. No boxes ticked. But the key was in the lock, the ashtrays were full, the fridge held both his beer and her yogurt, and the records were mixed together on the shelf. They were building something, even if neither of them could quite name it yet.
The studio was warm with laughter and low, layered chords—the guys in that familiar pocket of chaos that somehow worked. She sat on the edge of the battered couch, tapping through her camera, glancing up now and then at Euronymous adjusting pedals, Hellhammer mock-bickering with Occultus, Faust asleep with a cymbal balanced on his chest. Even Varg hadn’t been too loud today. Lurking, yes. But tolerable. She stood, brushing hair from her eyes. “I’m gonna grab a soda.” “Get me one too,” Euronymous called, distracted, chewing on a guitar pick. She shot him a lazy thumbs up and slipped out into the hallway. The vending machine buzzed under the hum of ancient overhead lights. She was scrolling through blurry pictures of Faust mid-scream when— “Still playing house, huh?”
“You like playing pretend, huh? Pretending this is your world. That you belong here. You don’t,” he said, his tone low and steady, laced with venom. She didn’t answer, just pressed the button for Euronymous’s usual Coke. “You think this is love or whatever? That he’s really gonna pick you when it comes down to it? He’s building an empire. There’s no room for a soft little thing like you in it.” She turned slowly, eyes like sharpened glass. “You done?” she asked coldly. That did something to him. His face twitched. “You’re just a distraction,” he hissed. “A fucking weakness.” He stepped closer. Too close. “You think you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but all it’ll take is one mistake. One real moment of clarity and he’ll drop you like the joke you are.”
"you're just jealous that for as long as you'll live, you were the little fuck that he built from the ground up. you talk a lot for someone who leached and followed Euronymous till he got big enough to play pretend king. you would be nothing without him."
And maybe that was the last thread. His hand lashed out before she saw it coming—crack across her cheekbone, fast and brutal. Her head snapped to the side, the taste of blood blooming in her mouth. Silence. A thundercrack of movement. Euronymous. Slamming into Varg full force. The two hit the wall hard, a crash that echoed through the studio. Øystein didn’t hold back. Not this time. His fist connected once—twice—three times, and Varg’s lip split, a tooth clattering against the floor tiles. “You touch her? You fucking dare lay a hand on her?” Euronymous snarled, pinning Varg by the collar against the wall. “I should gut you right here.”
Varg gasped for breath, choking on blood. The others had come running. Hellhammer grabbed Øystein’s arm. “Dude, Øystein, stop! You’ll kill him—” “That’s the fucking point!” he barked, eyes wild. Attila and Faust looked at her. "fuck" Faust muttered under his breath inspecting the bruise. "Øystein" Hellhammer said gripping his best friends shoulder, which caused him to let go. Varg crumpled to the ground. Euronymous turned, still shaking. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, saw the mark blooming on her cheek. He held her hand and left. Past the others. Past Varg, still gasping on the floor. “Never again,” he said, voice low. “He’ll never fucking breathe near you again.” The door slammed behind them.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them. Neither spoke. Euronymous stood there frozen for a second, staring blankly ahead like if he moved, the world might split apart. She set her keys down quietly. Her face still throbbed—dull and sharp at once—and her fingers instinctively hovered near the bruise blooming under her eye as she looked at it through the mirror near the door. He turned. When he saw it—the purpling mark standing out starkly against her skin—his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His chest rose and fell with shallow, unsteady breaths. For a second, it looked like he might break something.
Then, without a word, he crossed the space and touched her face as gently as he could, his thumb ghosting just near the bruise but never making contact. she just looked up at him, eyes glassy but hard. “It’s okay—” “No,” he snapped, not at her, but the memory. “It’s not fucking okay.” He pulled her into him then, carefully but with purpose, like she might vanish if he didn’t hold her tight enough. She went willingly, pressing her face into his shoulder, his arms caging her in. His shirt smelled like smoke and winter and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
“I should’ve gotten there faster,” he muttered into her hair. “I should’ve stopped him sooner.” “You did,” she whispered. “You were there. That’s what matters.” They stood like that for minutes—silent, warm, a fragile sense of safety building between their breaths. Eventually, he stepped back and took her hand. “Sit,” he said softly, leading her to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub while he rummaged through the cabinet for the first-aid kit. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the ice pack and wrapped it in a cloth before gently pressing it to her cheek. She hissed at the cold, and he flinched with her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes filled with something almost like shame. “You didn’t do it,” she replied, looking at him. “You’re the one who stopped it.”
His gaze dropped to her lap. “Doesn’t change the fact that I let him get that close to you.” There was nothing to say to that, so she just reached for his hand. He let her hold it, thumb brushing her knuckles. Later, in the living room, they sat on the couch in silence. A small lamp cast a warm glow across the room. Neither of them wanted to put music on. The silence was the only thing that felt right. He lit them each a cigarette. She winced slightly when she smiled.
Euronymous looked at her again and swallowed. “He’s going to pay for it. One way or another.” She didn’t argue. She believed him. He shifted closer and rested his hand on her knee. “You still want me here?” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “This is your home too, Øystein.” That was the only answer he needed. Later that night, after tea and dull late-night TV no one was really watching, she found his jacket hung on the back of a chair. Inside the pocket was the ring—his father’s ring. She held it in her hand for a moment, feeling its weight. She didn’t bring it up.
The days that followed were quiet in a way that didn’t feel like peace. Euronymous barely left her side. He brought her coffee in bed, sat next to her when she curled up on the couch, watched her face when she didn’t notice. But inside, his mind spun relentlessly. Every time he looked at the faint bruise on her face, guilt bloomed like rust in his chest. He replayed it in his head: Varg’s words. The flash of her face when it happened. Her flinch. The blood pounding in his ears. Her voice when she told him it was okay. It wasn’t. It never had been. And the more he thought about it, the more one thing looped:
If she wasn’t with me… this wouldn’t have happened.
He didn’t want to believe it. But it felt like the truth was souring in his mouth. Hellhammer noticed first. The way Euronymous would stare too long, drift off mid-sentence. The tension in his shoulders never loosening. One night, at the back of Helvete, while reader had stepped out to run a quick errand, Hellhammer lit a cigarette and offered him one. Euronymous took it with a shaking hand. “She’s not safe with me,” he muttered, voice rough. Hellhammer blinked. “What?”
Euronymous exhaled, staring at the wall. “I thought I could… keep her out of this. All of it. But Varg—he fucking hit her, man. Next time, who knows? I drag people into the fire with me.” “You’re not serious.” “I think I should let her go. I cant fucking take this anymore.”
He paused. Voice lower.
“I dont want her to hate me for real.” What neither of them realized was that she had come back early. Had been walking up the steps when she heard her name through the cracked basement door.
And when she heard him say let her go — the world fell out from beneath her.
She didn’t stay to hear the rest.
The apartment door slammed behind her. She paced once, then twice. Then again. Her chest was caving in. Her lungs were rocks. She stared at the framed photo of them in the kitchen — taken a week after she’d moved him in. His arms around her shoulders. Her laughing. She picked it up and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a hollow crash. The bedroom lamp went next. a couple coffee mugs. His half-finished cigarette pack. The record player. One of his jackets got ripped down from the hook and flung across the couch. The little keychain she bought him, shattered against the floor.
When the rage ran out, all that was left was silence and a pile of broken pieces that still smelled like him.
Days passed. Then a week. Then another. Euronymous came home that night and found the place in shambles. Her things were missing. His ring was on the counter. He didn’t sleep that night. Or the one after. Or the one after that. She wasn’t at any of her regular spots. Faust hadn’t seen her. Metalion didn’t know anything. Not even Hellhammer had heard from her. She was just gone. And he felt every inch of the absence. Not in screams. Not in punches. But in silence. The kind that rang in his bones and made his heart hurt in places he didn’t think it could. They searched everywhere. all of the guys.
Flyers didn’t seem like something she’d respond to. Neither did voicemails. So they walked the streets. Cafés. Bookstores. Graveyards. They checked with old friends and music bars and cigarette shops. Euronymous kept circling the same blocks like she’d just appear if he was desperate enough. But she didn’t. Not for a month. The apartment sat heavy and cold, its disarray still untouched. Euronymous couldn’t bring himself to clean it. Her absence clung to the walls like smoke that never aired out. He barely slept. Barely ate. Every knock at Helvete’s door made his stomach turn. Every time someone said her name, he had to force himself not to snap. The guilt had become a person sitting on his chest.
Then, one evening, the door unlocked. He hadn’t changed the key. It creaked open slowly, and there she stood in the threshold. Her hair was messy, wind-tangled. Her makeup was half-smeared across her cheeks, dark under her eyes. Her clothes didn’t match. Her boots were muddy. She looked exhausted. Feral. Beautiful. He stood up from the couch so fast his knees hit the coffee table. “...Y/N.” She didn’t move. “Where the fuck have you been?” His voice cracked down the middle. “I’ve been looking for you—I’ve—Jesus, I thought you were dead—” He was met with straight silence, her eyes glued onto anything avoiding him.
“I heard you, Øystein.”
Her voice rose, eyes shining with heat. “That night in the basement. You were gonna let me go. You already did.” “That’s not—” he stepped toward her and she recoiled like he’d raised a hand. His heart shattered. “That’s not what I meant—” “It’s exactly what you meant. You said it to Jan Axel. Like I wouldn’t find out. Like I don’t fucking matter.” “That’s not true—” she rubbed her forehead as she sighed “You told me you loved me. you took me to meet your goddamn parents! Then the second shit got hard, you were ready to vanish. What the fuck does that mean?”
He rubbed his face. “I didn’t say I was leaving because I didn’t love you—I was trying to protect you.” She laughed bitterly, tears spilling now. “No. You were trying to protect yourself.” Silence. “I’m not some porcelain doll you get to fuck up and throw away when things get hard.” Her voice cracked. “You don’t get to break me and then act like it was noble.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked at her, then away. Then back. “I’ve been losing people for years,” he whispered. “Pelle. Then my band. My city. And then you got hurt. And I just—I panicked. I thought… I thought if I left first, it wouldn’t kill me.” “No. You don’t get to hurt someone just because you’re scared.”
“I love you. I didn’t stop.”
His voice was raw. “I loved you every goddamn day you were gone. I kept your fucking coffee mug on the shelf and I couldn’t even touch it. I was too afraid it’d still smell like you.” Her eyes filled, but she didn’t move. “I fucked up,” he breathed. “But I didn’t stop loving you.” A long silence. The air in the room was electric. She looked down at her bruised knuckles from god knows what, the pain in her shoulders from wherever she’d been. The silence between them lingered for too long. Her breath was shaky as she looked around the apartment—their apartment. Everything in it was touched by him, shaped by him, wrapped in the version of love that had kept them alive and bleeding at once.
The couch where they first fell asleep together.
His chipped black coffee mug by the sink.
The ring box buried in her drawer.
The lingering smell of his cigarettes and cologne clinging to her curtains.
It was all too much. “I need a break,” she said softly. Euronymous blinked. “From… what? From me?” She nodded. Not because she wanted to. Because she had to. “From all of it. You. Me. Us. This. I just… I need air.”
His hands trembled as he moved to hold her face. “I can’t fix it if I’m not here. please” “That’s just it, Øystein,” she whispered. “You can’t fix it right now. And neither can I.” He swallowed hard. “You want me to leave.” “I want you to pack some of your things and go,” she said, voice fragile. “Not forever. Just... for now. I'll come back to you when the times right” The silence cracked open between them again. His jaw twitched, like he was trying to keep whatever emotion that welled in his throat from spilling over. “But I’m not giving up, please y/n” “I’m not asking you to,” she said, eyes red-rimmed. “I’m asking you to let me breathe.”
“please, Don’t, don't do this” he whispered, shaking his head. She laughed—harsh, tired. “do what?” His lips parted, like he was searching for something to say, some salve, some version of this where they weren’t burning everything to the ground. But it wouldn’t come. It never came. “I gave everything I had left in me for this” she said, gesturing around the room. “for you. And I can’t tell what’s real anymore. If it’s love or chaos or just something to survive through.”He stood now, desperate to reach her, to undo whatever it was he broke—but she took a step back. “Please don’t,” she said, softer now. “Don’t make this harder.”
Silence bloomed again, loud and unbearable. “I need you to pack some of your stuff and go.” His breath hitched. “You’re serious.” “I’m bleeding, Øystein,” she said, barely above a whisper. “And I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.” He opened his mouth to argue, to beg, to fight—but then he saw it. The way her arms were crossed, tight around herself like she was holding her soul in. The faint purple bloom of the bruise under her eye. The exhaustion in her bones. She loved him. He knew that and she was breaking because of it. He nodded, slow and silent. Walked past her, brushing her shoulder like a ghost. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The sound of a duffel bag unzipping. The quiet shuffling of clothes being folded with shaky hands. When he returned, He held the bag in one hand. Looked at her like he wanted to memorize the way she looked in that moment, even if it gutted him. she was sat on the couch, elbows on her knees with her head in her hands “Should I leave the key?” She didn’t answer. He placed it on the kitchen counter. A small clink. Final. “I’ll go,” he said quietly. “But I’ll come back. Even if you don’t want me to.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He left.
And this time…
She didn’t try to stop him.
