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Entry tags:
Brief fic
Title: Library
Rating: G
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar
Word Count: 1,045
A/N: Unbearably cheesy
Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, the vast Mordhaus library managed to be cozy. The space was at least five stories high, with books lining the solid rock walls and filling shelves that jutted out at right angles, forming a maze of books and the Dewey Decimal system. The center, however, was just a vast column of air and colored light that filtered in through the specially designed glass ceiling. A fortune had been spent to create a much more metal – and therefore violent, demonic, and rather nihilistic – version of the Sistine Chapel ceiling in engineered glass and wrought iron. Still more money had been spent on hidden skylights and recessed lamps and a precision-calibrated filtration system. The library was warm and bright and dust-free and the chairs found in the circular opening of the ground floor were overstuffed leather and each had a black or silver knitted afghan over an arm. The comfortable feeling was only enhanced by the head librarian, a matronly gear who wore demure pearls around her neck that just managed to peek out from beneath her hood. Skwisgaar had been retreating to the place for years whenever the austerity of his bedroom and the general brutality of the rest of their home simply became too much. Or, of course, whenever he wanted to escape from a certain annoying Norwegian.
Toki didn’t have the patience to read, nor the wherewithal to still his limbs without the application of booze or drugs. The head librarian thought he was a sweet nuisance and always did her best to shoo him away for the safety of her shelves and cataloging system. Skwisgaar, who could be quite still and quiet when he wanted, often hid out among the shelves or picked out his nearly-silent melodies from the snug embrace of one of the chairs sitting wreathed in filtered, colored sunlight. He liked to read, too, from time to time. The Mordhaus library was fully stocked in all sorts of metal subjects and in some other areas as well, and its collection came in more languages than just English. There was something Skwisgaar found inherently soothing about reading in his native tongue. It made his brain feel clear and sharp and he spent hours on end tracing the bones of old Viking sagas, memorizing eddas, and picking up bits and pieces of runic alphabet. And then one day his bolt hole was invaded.
Nathan had been a casual visitor to the library in the past. The head librarian had been his ever-patient tutor when he was studying for his GED and he’d been occupied for several weeks reading up about the Yamimango tribe, his ancestors, and stories of adventures to the Amazon. But his presence had always been fleeting in the past, an occasional background figure to Skwisgaar’s habitual presence. Somehow, that had changed.
It seemed like every time recently that he’d gone to the library, whether to escape Toki or to simply lose himself in Swedish words, Nathan had already been there. The head librarian had even had to apologize one day for not having had his book requests all pulled yet because Nathan had had his in first and apparently he’d wanted half the library or something. An underlying current of noise, low deep murmurs to be sure but still an unfamiliar sound among the shelves, followed Skwisgaar as he stalked through the rows, haunted him as he read tucked into a snug corner, provided an unwitting rhythm for his fingers as he plucked at his guitar. Nathan didn’t seem to possess the ability to read to himself and on rare occasions the thought occurred to Skwisgaar that maybe Nathan has word dyslexia the same as he had it for reading music. Usually, though, the Swede would mutter to himself about noisy American dildos invading his privacy before grudgingly moving deeper into the comforting silence of pages and covers and sturdy wooden shelves.
And Nathan always wore his glasses in the library, the black-rimmed spectacles he needed for extended periods of close-up work, and it made something weird shiver up Skwisgaar’s spine every time he saw them. Nathan’s bright green eyes were bigger behind the lenses, unlikely to be shadowed by the fall of his hair, and they seemed to catch on the guitarist, track him as easily as the Florida panthers he had once heard yowling in the swamps beyond the singer’s family home. The Swede took to hiding behind massive books bound in wood and iron, the pages not paper but animal skins. He tucked himself into runes and lost gods and tried to forget about the metal titan sitting just a few stacks away. But somehow, more often than not and no matter how long he waited, trusting in his sterner stomach to outlast his band mate, Nathan was usually still in the library when he decided to retreat back into the real world. He would trace every step Skwisgaar took and it was not uncommon for the guitarist to glance back after leaving the library and heading down the stone corridor to see the singer standing in the entrance next to the book gargoyle. It was uncanny and strange and, little by little, Skwisgaar found himself worn down.
Nathan was not Toki. He had a patience born of struggling for words, of hours spent in the woods with a bow or a rod and only the silent company of his father. He was also probably the most stubborn member of Dethklok and he could be a veritable immovable object when he wanted. It took nearly sixth months but finally Nathan’s waiting game paid off. He had been carefully prowling after Skwisgaar as the Swede moved through the stacks when he’d been distracted by a book cover with battle axes and swords on it and he’d paused to browse through it. And Skwisgaar, who suddenly couldn’t handle the loss of his silent but rather looming shadow, backtracked to Nathan’s position. Strong, calloused fingers lowered the book of weapons between their bodies and then Skwisgaar looked down silently into luminous green eyes.
“Wuts does you WANTS in here all de times, Nathans?”
Nathan Explosion, put at bay, reacted like any predator. He grinned, showing his teeth, and put the book aside.
“You.”
Rating: G
Pairing: Nathan/Skwisgaar
Word Count: 1,045
A/N: Unbearably cheesy
Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, the vast Mordhaus library managed to be cozy. The space was at least five stories high, with books lining the solid rock walls and filling shelves that jutted out at right angles, forming a maze of books and the Dewey Decimal system. The center, however, was just a vast column of air and colored light that filtered in through the specially designed glass ceiling. A fortune had been spent to create a much more metal – and therefore violent, demonic, and rather nihilistic – version of the Sistine Chapel ceiling in engineered glass and wrought iron. Still more money had been spent on hidden skylights and recessed lamps and a precision-calibrated filtration system. The library was warm and bright and dust-free and the chairs found in the circular opening of the ground floor were overstuffed leather and each had a black or silver knitted afghan over an arm. The comfortable feeling was only enhanced by the head librarian, a matronly gear who wore demure pearls around her neck that just managed to peek out from beneath her hood. Skwisgaar had been retreating to the place for years whenever the austerity of his bedroom and the general brutality of the rest of their home simply became too much. Or, of course, whenever he wanted to escape from a certain annoying Norwegian.
Toki didn’t have the patience to read, nor the wherewithal to still his limbs without the application of booze or drugs. The head librarian thought he was a sweet nuisance and always did her best to shoo him away for the safety of her shelves and cataloging system. Skwisgaar, who could be quite still and quiet when he wanted, often hid out among the shelves or picked out his nearly-silent melodies from the snug embrace of one of the chairs sitting wreathed in filtered, colored sunlight. He liked to read, too, from time to time. The Mordhaus library was fully stocked in all sorts of metal subjects and in some other areas as well, and its collection came in more languages than just English. There was something Skwisgaar found inherently soothing about reading in his native tongue. It made his brain feel clear and sharp and he spent hours on end tracing the bones of old Viking sagas, memorizing eddas, and picking up bits and pieces of runic alphabet. And then one day his bolt hole was invaded.
Nathan had been a casual visitor to the library in the past. The head librarian had been his ever-patient tutor when he was studying for his GED and he’d been occupied for several weeks reading up about the Yamimango tribe, his ancestors, and stories of adventures to the Amazon. But his presence had always been fleeting in the past, an occasional background figure to Skwisgaar’s habitual presence. Somehow, that had changed.
It seemed like every time recently that he’d gone to the library, whether to escape Toki or to simply lose himself in Swedish words, Nathan had already been there. The head librarian had even had to apologize one day for not having had his book requests all pulled yet because Nathan had had his in first and apparently he’d wanted half the library or something. An underlying current of noise, low deep murmurs to be sure but still an unfamiliar sound among the shelves, followed Skwisgaar as he stalked through the rows, haunted him as he read tucked into a snug corner, provided an unwitting rhythm for his fingers as he plucked at his guitar. Nathan didn’t seem to possess the ability to read to himself and on rare occasions the thought occurred to Skwisgaar that maybe Nathan has word dyslexia the same as he had it for reading music. Usually, though, the Swede would mutter to himself about noisy American dildos invading his privacy before grudgingly moving deeper into the comforting silence of pages and covers and sturdy wooden shelves.
And Nathan always wore his glasses in the library, the black-rimmed spectacles he needed for extended periods of close-up work, and it made something weird shiver up Skwisgaar’s spine every time he saw them. Nathan’s bright green eyes were bigger behind the lenses, unlikely to be shadowed by the fall of his hair, and they seemed to catch on the guitarist, track him as easily as the Florida panthers he had once heard yowling in the swamps beyond the singer’s family home. The Swede took to hiding behind massive books bound in wood and iron, the pages not paper but animal skins. He tucked himself into runes and lost gods and tried to forget about the metal titan sitting just a few stacks away. But somehow, more often than not and no matter how long he waited, trusting in his sterner stomach to outlast his band mate, Nathan was usually still in the library when he decided to retreat back into the real world. He would trace every step Skwisgaar took and it was not uncommon for the guitarist to glance back after leaving the library and heading down the stone corridor to see the singer standing in the entrance next to the book gargoyle. It was uncanny and strange and, little by little, Skwisgaar found himself worn down.
Nathan was not Toki. He had a patience born of struggling for words, of hours spent in the woods with a bow or a rod and only the silent company of his father. He was also probably the most stubborn member of Dethklok and he could be a veritable immovable object when he wanted. It took nearly sixth months but finally Nathan’s waiting game paid off. He had been carefully prowling after Skwisgaar as the Swede moved through the stacks when he’d been distracted by a book cover with battle axes and swords on it and he’d paused to browse through it. And Skwisgaar, who suddenly couldn’t handle the loss of his silent but rather looming shadow, backtracked to Nathan’s position. Strong, calloused fingers lowered the book of weapons between their bodies and then Skwisgaar looked down silently into luminous green eyes.
“Wuts does you WANTS in here all de times, Nathans?”
Nathan Explosion, put at bay, reacted like any predator. He grinned, showing his teeth, and put the book aside.
“You.”
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HOW DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS TO ME WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN-
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