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One of the few things Nathan had actually paid attention to in school had been vikings. The obsession hit him hard, constantly getting in trouble for doodles of horned helmets and the curved helms of ships in class. It carried into his adult life with those same doodles littering song lyrics and guitar tabs much to the ongoing frustration of his bandmates. When he had found out that Skwisgaar was from Sweden, he had pestered him for some kind of knowledge he didn’t have yet. As if he knew more than Nathan by virtue of his birthplace. He hadn’t and Nathan barely concealed his disappointment. What had grabbed his attention the hardest were the funerals. Great burial mounds, pyres, burning ships, fire eating up the last of the mortal form as the soul was carried to Valhalla.
“Look, anything he left you can fuckin’ burn, dude,” Pickles had said. It was probably meant as a figure of speech but Nathan took it to heart.
Magnus didn’t own many things and he left behind even fewer. Old shirts, records, a pair of boots, guitar picks. The kind of things a poor bachelor with four roommates would have. The other guys had picked through everything like a carcass of their friendship with him and the box in the passenger seat next to Nathan was sparsely filled. His shoulder itched and bothered him as he drove, trying not to pick at the clumsy stitches Pickles had put in his skin. He hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital because the last thing they needed were more bills. Or cops. So PIckles had dutifully stitched him up with a regular sewing needle and thread and splashed some cheap vodka on it. He had said he’d learned that trick from when he was a shitty punk kid and didn’t want a hospital calling his parents.
He knew he wouldn’t get bothered when he pulled over on the side of the road. It was a long expanse of nothing, the sun was just setting and he knew the guy who owned the land. They had parties and bonfires and cars parked there all the time. It wouldn’t matter. He grabbed the box and walked until he found an old fire pit and began to clean it dutifully. Nathan flicked his lighter once, twice, and it weakly sputtered to life. He needed a new one, the pink Playboy one in his hand that Pickles had gotten him as a joke finally reaching its last leg. The comics made better kindling than Nathan expected at first. Punisher, Spawn, some shit with Wolverine Nathan didn’t even care to sift over. Then it was the clothes, band shirts and random loose socks. The records were next, Slayer and Rush and Dream Theater. All crackling and bubbling in the flame as Nathan prodded them so as to not smother the fire.
The smoke stung his eyes and he felt as if he shouldn’t be breathing in some of this shit. Mind wandering, he carefully reached under his shirt and probed the swollen flesh of his shoulder blade. A hiss of pain escaped him and he flinched away. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse - the literal or figurative backstabbing. Drawing his attention back to the fire he fished around in the bottom of the box. The remaining contents were partly from Magnus’ room and partly from his own.
The pictures felt strange in his hands now, despite how frequently looked at and well-loved some were. There were a few rough polaroids, some smooth developed film, and they all weighed as much as lead and they hurt to look at. Nathan drew in a small and shaking breath as he worked through each one and flicked through them like a rolodex of memories. Some were taken by Murderface with that old Polaroid that he had before he even joined the band. At parties, the apartment, their practice space. Some had little notes scribbled on them in marker. “Working on lyrics!” in Murderface’s scrawl on the back of a photo of Magnus practically draped over Nathan as they looked at a pad of paper. Others were from shitty single-use cameras to memorialize what they could. Blurry photos where Nathan could see a peek of himself cozied up on the sofa or in a corner with Magnus. He wondered if anyone noticed those times with the lights down low, music up high, everyone in their own worlds unaware, a hand on his thigh.
There were others in the piles. Blurs taken with a stolen Polaroid. Nathan half-asleep in his bed, sheets tucked up to his chin, red in the face and annoyed his photo was being taken. Magnus splayed out on the same bed laughing, skinny arms and legs out in the air like a dying spider. Tangles of black and brown hair hanging over faces and shoulders, pooling under heads, fingers threaded through them. There was a shaky photo Nathan remembered struggling to take, the two of them pressed together in a kiss. A dark splotch fell on it and he went to wipe his eyes. He had been so stupid. And now he was in the woods crying all alone. There were others too of course, a good stack, Murderface always wondering why he ran out of film faster than he took pictures. Nathan held one in his hands and a soft choking noise burst out of him. The two of them in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Nathan was holding the camera and Magnus was behind him with his arms wrapped around him. They were laughing and happy and that was gone.
A nauseous feeling rested in his stomach and he grunted as he ripped up another photo for the fire. The band playing in somebody's garage, all cramped and practically on top of each other. They were looking at each other. Nathan looked obviously dazed and flushed and he remembered blaming it on alcohol when it was the fact that Magnus had grabbed and kissed him while the others were unloading gear. He should have done something differently. Had some level of professionalism with the whole thing. The conversation a few months ago with Pickles made more sense in hindsight. An awkward car ride to the store without music, where Pickles sat and idly talked about fucking bandmates and getting feelings while Nathan sat and stared at his lap and wished he was somewhere else. They had noticed.
He wondered if it could have ever gone differently. If he had said something else, used a nicer word than crazy, would there not be a gaping hole in his back? Would the band still have their guitarist? Most importantly would Nathan have his friend or whatever the fuck Magnus was to him? It had been two years of dark corners of parties, hidden photos, quick kisses good luck, tip-toeing between rooms. Two years of that for a knife in his fucking back that scraped against his bone so hard his fingers had tingled. He tried to conjure up a fantasy of what might have been. Like all the other times Magnus had blown up. His head in Nathan’s lap as he smoked a joint and sulked about how everyone else talked back to him. But Magnus had never blown up like that before, had never thrown shit around or screamed with that much venom or hatred. A sob caught in Nathan’s throat and stung until he finally let himself cry like how he was supposed to. Nobody would hear him. There were no thin walls of the apartment or prying roommates as he sat and heaved into his pillow to try and be quiet.
“Stupid asshole,” he choked out to nobody. He wasn’t even sure who he was talking about.
There was one last photo he looked for in the box, swearing when he realized it was missing. It was one of the earliest photos of the whole band together. It had been after a good show. One of their first good ones. Everyone was huddled together arm-in-arm with wide smiles. Magnus and Nathan having eyes for each other, of course. It had been the debut of one of their earliest songs which turned out to be a bit of a failure Nathan couldn’t even remember the name of. Magnus had written the lyrics after drunkenly watching a documentary on Leif Erikson with Nathan. Of course, Nathan had talked and heckled over it because it was just so wrong it felt like his brain was burning. As the credits rolled Magnus had called him smart. After a school career of bad grades and parent-teacher meetings, nobody had ever called Nathan smart. So he returned the compliment with an impulsive kiss. Shaking hands had cupped Magnus’ cheeks as he leaned forward and it felt as if he was about to die when a hand rested on his back and brought him even closer. Then that just...kept happening. And happening, and happening, and happening until it stopped two weeks ago.
But that photo was gone. It wasn’t that important to panic over because it had probably just been tossed mindlessly into the fire like the others. Like the shirts, and the records, and the comics. Like Magnus was gone. Like any feeling that Nathan had for him dying and turning to cold ash just like the fire in front of him.
He stood and rolled his stiff shoulders with a wince when he was sure the fire was out. It was darker than he expected when he got back to the car and by the time he walked through the door of the apartment Murderface and Skwisgaar were asleep. Pickles was in front of the TV and mostly hidden away in a lump of blankets, save for his face and his hands which were cuddling his bong close to him. Red and hooded eyes followed Nathan as he walked past to head to his room.
“The hell you’ve been?” Pickles asked blearily.
“Getting rid of Magnus’ shit,” was Nathan’s flat reply.
“Oh. Uh, you...okay?” he was squinting at Nathan in front of the blue light of the television. Scrutinizing him. “You been crying?”
“No,” the response was too quick and it hung obvious in the air between them. He just raised a heavy hand in a half-hearted wave and turned to his room again. “I gotta go to bed. Night.”
Falling onto his mattress, Nathan groaned into his pillow. A surge of pain swept through his body as he tried to wiggle out of his clothes without standing up. He didn’t even feel like taking off his boots; he was so exhausted. It didn’t help that there was a numbness that he had never felt before slowly seeping through his body like spilled ink. So, he said fuck it and pulled a loose sheet over his head to try and go to sleep. It was a fitful night with dreams filled with the mournful bellowing of whales and the angry, half-blind gaze of Odin. In the morning he walked by the now extra room and stared into the emptiness. He shook his head clear of the sadness that was swimming inside and slammed the door shut so hard everyone was staring at him when he walked into the kitchenette. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t afford to.