Disclaimer: I don't own Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Charles Ofdensen, Nathan Explosion, Pickles the Drummer, William Murderface, Magnus Hamilton, or Toki Wartooth. All of them belong to Metalocalypse and thus Brendon Small. I don't claim to own them so please don't sue me. I do, however, own Nilsine and Viveka Kriget. They are not part of the show nor or any of the events listed in the story below.
Warning: M/M slash. Skwisgaar/Ofdensen, Skwisgaar/OC. Fairly mild. Also, drug and alcohol references and profanity. Rated T.
It's better than being at home, Skwisgaar Skwigelf thought to himself, bracing against the cold. He only lived about twenty miles west of Stockholm – his destination. He was sure he could make it there in a night, but as a blizzard threatened him casually, he began to wonder. Still, it wasn't as if his mother would be sending the police after him with a search party. No, she didn't care enough. Probably too busy whoring around, he thought bitterly. His boots couldn't keep him warm enough, but the guitar slung around his back did protect him from some of the wind. He only hoped that Stockholm would be all that it promised, he hoped he could get money from his playing and fly somewhere else. Oslo, perhaps. Norway was far enough away from his promiscuous mother.
He could see lights in the distance, though they were few. The white-out effect of the snow caused much of the city to be nothing more than a blur, but he was positive that it was Stockholm he was approaching. He could only hope that a nineteen-year-old could make it with nothing more than a guitar. If not, he supposed he could take a job. But who would hire a high school drop-out?
The city became clearer; even the snow began to calm. It was as though all of Sweden and all of nature beckoned him towards that one place, the only place that could protect him. The light of dawn embraced the horizon, drawing Skwisgaar further into its promise of bliss. Two people became visible in the light, a young woman and her little sister. Both had short blonde hair, but the older had her cropped up to her scalp. The budding guitarist found her quite attractive and approached her carefully.
"Excuse me, miss," he began in his native tongue. "Could you tell me where I am?" He knew exactly where he was, but the girl was quite beautiful. She turned around and appraised him quietly. He figured that she would be disgusted by his ice-covered coat, his black boots filthy and a tacky guitar swung over his back. After a moment, she responded.
"This is Bromma," she finally responded in a husky tone. Her little sister tugged gently on her coat sleeve, but the girl ignored her. "Abrahamsberg, actually. Are you lost?"
"Well…no. Not exactly. But I need a place to stay for a week or so. I was hoping I was where someone would know me." He was straight-out lying; he knew none of his family, and was positive that none of them would live in Stockholm. From what little his mother had told him, her family were loners and would rather die than live in a city.
"Do you know anyone here?" The girl's sister continued to tug on her sleeve, but with more vigor. The girl hushed her sister.
The girl bit her lip decisively. "Perhaps you could stay with me. I need to take my sister to school, but if you're here when I return, I can see what I can do." The girl finally gave into her sister's plea, but shouted back, "My name is Nilsine!"
"I am Skwisgaar!" he shouted back. She nodded, but was then gone.
Nilsine. How beautiful. He began to hyperventilate as he remembered her; she had silky blonde hair that looked as though it was weaved of silvery thread, but was like a crown as it was so close to her head. Her lips were a delicate pink, straight white teeth hidden beneath them. She had a straight nose and strangely green eyes, a rare occurrence amongst Swedes. But it was her freckles that truly stood out to Skwisgaar; his mother had them, only she used heavy amounts of makeup to hide them. Nilsine allowed them to be displayed to the world, not ashamed of who she was. He smiled as he thought of her.
About an hour later, Nilsine returned without the little girl. Her red coat was fraying at the ends of her sleeves as though worn, but his were no better on his once-white coat. She was silent, looking down at him in his sitting position. He stood, and then was peering down at her. She smiled meekly.
"You would like a place to stay?" He nodded, so she continued. "I will provide that, and food. My father won't be home for another month, so you can stay until then. And you must keep clean."
"I am very clean," he assured her with a smile. "You won't even know I'm there."
"Oh, and you mustn't look, touch, or talk to my sister, Viveka. She's much too impressionable to be talking to a…homeless hobo."
Skwisgaar nodded with shame. "I will be gone most of the day, I only need food and a place to sleep at night. I promise."
She nodded stiffly. "Where are your things?"
"I don't have any. This is it." He gestured vaguely at the guitar on his back.
"Then let me show you your room." She took his hand gingerly and led him into her tiny house, then all the way to the back into a tiny room with nothing more than a cot. A tiny, tiny cot. Skwisgaar smirked and tossed his guitar across the room, taking a seat on the cot. When he looked up to thank Nilsine, she was already gone.
"Welcoming host," he muttered, picking up his guitar and lightly played out a quick solo. He played it a few more times, then continued into the rest of the song. Cold Day in Hell, he believed it was called. He'd been practicing the solo all of the past summer. His idol, Yngwie Malmsteen, had performed the solo at a live concert once, the high point of his otherwise dismal existence. He played it a few more times, until it was comfortable, then peered out the window at the snowy oblivion.
The sun was low in the sky, probably after noon already. He heard the door open and close, then pounding footsteps all the way to his room. The door slammed open, revealing the tiny frame of Nilsine. Her coat was the same as before, but she was now wearing a short skirt and tall boots. She was frowning.
"I'm leaving to get my sister. I don't expect you to be here when I return, since you promised to be gone during the days."
"Agreed," he stuttered with a smile. She's so beautiful…
"Good." Nilsine was gone, and Skwisgaar was already packing his guitar into its case. He couldn't risk losing his shelter. He traveled down the road aways, wandering and looking for an audience.
There was a small crowd walking down a particular road on both sides, so he plunked his guitar case down and started unloading. He left the case open to collect money, then began playing out a long, complicated solo that earned a few kronor, and that was all he got the whole day. As the sun set over the broad horizon, he felt his hopes go down with it. Maybe he should just go back to his mother, maybe he should give up all of his dreams of being a professional guitarist. Maybe…
He walked aimlessly down foreign streets paved with rushing people pushing past him as he casually strolled down the roads. He turned on a familiar-looking street, only to find himself lost again. There was no rhyme or reason to the order of things in Stockholm, just pointless dead-ends.
Eventually, after asking for directions and getting lost a few more times, he found himself in Abrahamsberg again. All of Bromma seemed silent, all of windows dim at the early time of night. Even the house he believed to be Nilsine's was dark until he knocked on it. She opened it cautiously, then gave him a horrified look.
"Have you been just wandering?" The worried look on her face grew as he nodded. "Are you insane? You'll get robbed!"
"I have nothing worth taking."
"It will be taken nonetheless. You must come back before sunset if you want to survive!"
"I can't afford that."
"Then you'll die a rich fool," she snapped, rushing back to what he assumed to be her bedroom. He went back to his own room and sighed at how impersonal the whole place was. It was no better or worse than his previous home, but he somehow expected more. He laid his head onto the flat pillow on his cot and fell asleep with his guitar wrapped snuggly in his arms.