HÅKON

The drive is long, longer than I want it to be. His hand is on my thigh most of the time, rubbing circles into the top of my knee, dozing off against the window, constantly reaching for me, wanting to be touching me, wanting his hands on me, wanting the warmth of my skin. His hand, long lithe fingers, brushes up and down my thigh, running his knuckles against the seams, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the crease, all while dozed off.

I slip my fingers into his and pull his hand up to my mouth, brushing my lips across his knuckles as I drive. I let him lace his fingers with mine and I spend a few minutes glancing back and forth between the long thin winding road and the way his hands look, delicate almost. Long, gentle, perfect.

"I love you," I whisper against his knuckles, half hoping he hears it and half hoping he doesn't.

He doesn't respond at first, then in a sleepy drawled strung-out raspy mumble, he utters something long and monotone in Czech, alerting me that he is very much asleep at this moment in time.

I kiss the hollow of his wrist. "I love you," I whisper again, this time in Swedish. "Sweet thing. Sweet, sweet, thing. Get some sleep, you deserve it." I glance at him, only taking my eyes off the road for a moment. I savor that split second, his parted lips, relaxed expression, head strung funny in the seatbelt to stay supported.

I lean on my elbow somewhat, holding his hand in mine, lips unmoving on his knuckles, and I drive. For another half hour. I drive as the sun dips insanely close to the horizon but never passes. Midnight Sun. It's the solstice, after all.

"Mhmn," that's how most of his sleep talking starts so I know I'm in for a long slurred one-sided conversation for the next few minutes here. "But.... nnn, hmph, that's... that's not the... code."

"What's not the code?" I mumble against his hand. Sometimes I'm able to interact with him in his dreams, which is fun, because then he wakes up and tells me I was actually in them and that's just right-out adorable and makes me feel all squishy inside.

"Hnn... four, it's... there's... gah! Just.. gimme." His free hand pinches together like a crab a couple times, like he's acting out what's going on. "Lads."

There it is. My favorite part of his sleeptalking. He's never used the word 'lads' anywhere while he's awake. I don't even think he thinks to use the word lads. And yet, when he's asleep, it's in every other sentence.

A bubble of adoration sparks in my chest at the twitch in his neck and the squeeze on my hand, he goes through a long slur of Czech, his voice slightly deeper and raspier in his first language. I kiss his knuckles one by one.

"... nhnn, no, nikdy," his voice tumbles back and forth between languages and then I get a little shock when I hear: "flygplan." Why does he know the Swedish word for airplane? I'll blame Little Milo. His voice shifts slightly to say it, back into his throat, putting a different feeling around the word. It makes my stomach flutter, I won't lie.

"...for... no... four score... and... hhhnngh seven years- ago..." for a man who's not an American in any way, having only lived there for four-six years, this is new. "Our fathers-" he starts yawning. "Brought fourthanewnation... no... that'swrong mmhng, on this continent, then... yeah... nation." he stretches his hand out and places it flat on the dashboard. I lock the doors, realizing that he could probably open up that door if his dream suggested it.

"Ah," he mutters. "I fucking hate Americans." it's so crisp and clear compared to all of everything else he's been saying that I have to cough to keep in a laugh. "C'ept Stephy." he mumbles. "He's... acceptable."

Milo mutters another few sentences in Czech before: "if... mmm Frank... if Dr Frankenstein wasn't... such... a pussy bitch."

"What would he have done?" I kiss his knuckles.

"Mhmm," he affirms. "Hhngh... railed... the monster... yes mrs Lee... no I can barely... mphghn... read english."

I adore that AP English haunts him even 5 years later. While a little sad and I feel bad, it's so funny. He had been speaking english, at 18, for a maximum of 5 years. A 10 year old's literacy is simply not enough to read through Frankenstein but he was only in the class to bother Steph.

I kiss his knuckles one by one, trying to quell my suddenly over-affectionate mood because I don't know how he'd feel about me pulling over just to cuddle in the back seat. He actually might like the random spontaneous energy of that, but I want to be back at the cabin where I can cuddle with him in an environment where both our bodies have space to breathe. The backseat of this particular vehicle would be cramped at best.

"What time is it?" there's a soft mumble from his side of the car.

"Almost midnight, why?"

"The sun's still up," he yawns, shifting his weight to my side of the car and leaning over to put his head on my shoulder. "How far away are we?"

"Ten minutes or so," I lean over, kissing his head for a split second before turning my attention back to the road. "I love you," I say quietly.

"I love you too," he responds, turning his nose into my shoulder. "I can't believe it's midnight. Look at it. It's not even touching the horizon."

I smile. "Welcome to a Swedish summer."

He taps his head against my shoulder. "I like it, kinda funky."

"M'glad you like it." I mumble, pulling up to the driveway entrance and then starting down the dirt path in the twilight.

I park, finally, and push open my door, only to be met at the front door by him, his day backpack over his shoulders, ready to go in and take off his suit and dress wear and finally cool down.

I kiss his head and unlock the cabin, it's waiting just as we left it this morning and I pause, taking off my backpack and setting it next to his.

Milo is standing in the kitchen already, a glass of water to his lips. I wander toward him, pulling my suit jacket off my shoulders, then down my arms, setting it on the counter.

He reaches up to straighten out my collar, soft, silent, sweet, gentle.

I tap my forehead down to his as I watch him methodically undo my tie and slip it out from around my neck. His fingers fidget with the material of my shirt, then push out the top button, allowing me to breathe.

I kiss his forehead, then soften the crease in his brows with my lips, then drop them to the tip of his nose, he picks up his chin and pauses, breath on mine. "It's been a couple hours since the shellfish, you think I'm okay?"

I nod. "I think we're okay."

Only time will tell and the brush of his lips on mine is too sweet to forgo for any longer. He kisses with quiet and attentive meaning, softly holding the sides of my face with his fingertips on one hand, the other laid gently across the upper slope of my chest. I kiss back, letting him lead and tell me what next and how, letting him be the one to paint a longing picture with his tongue before I follow up.

He stops after a moment, breaking off to kiss my cheek and pull his suit coat off, laying it next to mine. "I like this vest, but I can't breathe all the way." he whispers.

I nod, stepping a slight bit closer to him and pushing the buttons out of their holdings, then slipping my hands on the insides, running my palms against his ribs to separate it from his chest. Milo pulls it down off his shoulders, setting it down next to our discarded coats.

"Better?" I mumble, pulling down his shirt so it unsticks from it's wrinkled positions along his chest.

"Much," he sets his head on my shoulder and pulls out his tie, a lot less gracefully than what he did with mine. I use my hand to pull out his top button.

My attention flicks back to him and the dusk light coming in the window, golden orange across his face, heightening the shadows and the contrasts, showing me the deep deep green of his eyes, the different colors in his oak hair, the reds and the blondes and the blacks mixed in with the brown. I reach up and tuck it behind his ear, finding a grey hair along my journey. I slip that same hand around to cup the back of his head, kissing his upper cheek under his eye, then the side of his mouth.

And I kiss him again, in the quiet kitchen, the sun shining in from outside, not to set for another week. And he kisses me, with his hands tapping lightly all along my body and his body leant back against the counter. I kiss him with my whole heart and soul and it still feels like he's able to kiss back with more, stopping to breathe, stopping to kiss my cheeks, my temple, my forehead, my nose, my chin. Kissing and letting the languid energy of the moment slip between our slow mouths.

He lets his lips fall away from mine, holding still just away from my mouth before blinking open his eyes. "Tonight," he mumbles. "I think tonight is... is it."

I pause on that for a moment. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "It feels right."

I pull in a breath. "Okay, I'm okay with that. Let's... let's go for it." 

***

ugh alright the plot is finally moving again

and i think i've finally managed to recapture Håkon's sheer awe for Milo. This dude is in up to his throat and he's still smiling. (lovely character growth tbh)

anyway

-rabid

also if this goes to prove my lack of math skills, I just realized that if his birthday is in august he wouldn't have been eligible for Steph's draft year if he's 23 now. (he would've been 17, not 18) and so I guess this is a fun little way of being like, whoops, he's most likely 24 and older than Steph than 23 and younger. but we're going to leave it as-is because fuck that nit-picky editing I'd have to do.