Chapter Text
“iver.” comes his fathers voice from the seat in front of him, only slightly louder than the radio, and a contemplative sigh fills the air. “i hope you know that i don’t see you as any less than i did yesterday. there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just…wired differently in your head. that’s all. okay?”
he knew this. this was the same speech the lady in the cardigan had given him not fifteen minutes prior, about how he wasn’t broken, just different than other kids. the other kids had already made him well aware that he was different, and they didn’t politely hesitate before their adjectives. he half heartedly nods and lets out a small noise of acknowledgement before his hand returns to his mouth, teeth finding the rough skin around his fingernails. his father reaches to adjust the knob on the radio, and the two fall silent again, lulled by tyre on asphalt.
this road is one iver doesn’t think he’s driven down before, and the small bumps and dips in the surface made the car jerk and jump in a way he decidedly doesn’t like. the larger holes have filled with a murky mixture of water and mud, which splashes up against the car as they hit each one. despite his brand new school jumper, the icy puddle water dripping down his backseat window sends a strong shiver down his spine. at some point, he feels warm eyes fall onto him through the rear-view, and his gaze remains fixed on his knees.
“…iver, you know that’s not good for you.” a brief pause sits in the air. “if you promise to leave your hands alone, we can go and get sweets on the way home. does that sound like an alright compromise to you?”
a quiet “mhm” from the backseat is enough confirmation, and iver makes a point of sitting on his hands and sitting up as straight as he can manage. a few minutes of window-staring later and his hands feel funny and prickly, which makes him wonder if he should take them back into his lap, but this was a treat, and he knows that his father will surely comment about his good behaviour to his mother when they get home. he could be good for one car ride. the radio station is distracting enough for him to mostly ignore the strange feeling, playing an upbeat rock song in a language he can’t quite make heads or tails of.
“pappa, what song is this?”
“hm.” his father glances over to the little light-up part on the console, squinting at the tiny scrolling words. “it says it’s called ‘come as you are’ by nirvana. why?”
iver doesn’t understand a word of it, but lets out a small hum. “i dunno. is it finnish?”
“ah, no. it’s english. these guys were popular even when i was a kid. they’re from america, i think.”
“oh.” the rain picks up outside, and iver watches a few people run to hide underneath a bus stop, sheltering their heads with their book bags and purses. “where’s america?”
“you know america, don’t you? farmor and farfar live there. it’s by canada.”
he couldn’t tell you where canada is, but he remembers the woman in the cardigan telling his father that he asks a lot of questions, so he drops it. soon enough, the car makes a turn, and he looks up to see the supermarket carpark.
“watch your feet getting out of the car. puddles everywhere.”
thankfully, there’s a strip of cover just in front of their car, so they won’t have to walk to the door in the rain, which has now slowed down a little. iver climbs out of the car one foot at a time, and makes no comment when he feels his shoe sink into the same half-snow-half-water from the potholes, instantly soaking through to his socks.
“ah. i did tell you. not to worry, we can place them under the fireplace when we get home. how about i…”
iver feels two hands place themselves under his armpits, and he squeaks as they lift him into the air, resting him on his father’s hip.
“…there. no more puddles.”
he knows that most other kids his age would probably be embarrassed by something like this, thrashing to be let go like a just caught fish, but he can’t help but sink into the hold, warm and affectionate in a way he can never see himself growing tired of. he rests his head on his father’s shoulder, focusing on the rhythmic rocking motion from him walking back around the car and into the supermarket. he slows down slightly once they reach cover, but only sets him back down on the ground once they’re inside, brushing rainwater off of his head with a gloved hand. he already misses the contact, but he’s probably too old to whine about it and ask to be picked back up, so he stays quiet, eyes focused on the floor.
“i have to go get some milk for breakfast tomorrow, but you can go ahead and pick out your sweets if you’d like. just get me a few pieces of liquorice while you’re there, okay?”
iver nods. “okay.” a pause. “what does mamma want?”
“hm,” his father thinks for a moment, “i’m sure she’ll be happy with whatever you choose for her. go have a look.”
with that, his father turns to head towards the big wall of fridges, and iver squints up at the signs hanging from the ceiling, scanning each word until he eventually spots the one above the sweets. normally, he would know the layout of the supermarket by heart, probably able to find anything with his eyes closed, but he hasn’t been to this one before, he’s almost certain. this one is much busier, more people walking around and talking and pushing their squeaky trolleys full of vegetables and noisy babies. the lights are louder too, everything washed in the the same bright white as an airport terminal. they’re playing the same radio station over the speakers as they were listening to in the car, and he doesn’t quite mind abba, so he does his best to focus in on dancing queen while he dodges and weaves through seas of tall legs and produce bags.
there’s a few other kids at the sweet bins, so he awkwardly lingers at the end of the aisle until each one finishes and leaves. he doesn’t recognise any of them from school, which isn’t very surprising given how far away from home they are, but he still doesn’t want to risk becoming their fodder. once the aisle is almost empty, he allows himself to survey the little signs stuck to the bins, eyes scanning the letters until he finds what he needs. he struggles with the little paper bags for a moment, but shakes his head when a stranger’s hand reaches over to help, because he’s old enough to do these things by himself now.
he gets pappa’s first, a few more pieces than iver usually sees him get for himself, because pappa deserves all of the salty liquorice he wants, even if it’s disgusting. he rocks back and forth on his feet when it comes to mamma’s bag. did she like sweets? he’d never really seen her eat them before, although she didn’t exactly eat much in general anyway. he ponders for a few seconds, before deciding on what looks like
little heart shaped chocolates wrapped in shiny purple foil. there’s a bin of similar chocolates shaped like shiny beetles next to them, but he decides that the hearts must have more love inside of them, which would be perfect. most people liked chocolate, after all.
satisfied with his choice, he begins to fill his own bag. normally, he would stick to what he already knows. he was a fan of gummy worms, but always had to suck pieces off of his teeth afterwards, and his mother hated the sound of it. the lady with the cardigan enters his mind again, telling him that change is something he would have to learn to deal with if he wanted to make it through life. she seemed to know what she was talking about, even if it didn’t make much sense to him, so his hand skims over the gummy worms and lands on another bin. they look like small chocolate rings, but he isn’t quite sure if they have anything inside of them, and he can’t find the right label to check. they seem to be an okay compromise, though, so he scoops a few into the last paper bag.
a gentle tap at his shoulder makes him jump, but he’s quickly relieved to be faced with his father, carton of milk tucked into the crook of his arm.
“ah, are you done? let’s go over to pay, then.”
the rest of the drive home drags on for what seems like hours, but is really only around forty minutes or so. iver spends the time watching droplets of rain race across his window, silently betting on which one will reach the end first, and which will merge with other droplets to team up against the competition. when that gets boring, he rests his fingers against the window to look like legs, and pretends he’s doing parkour, dramatically jumping from rooftop to rooftop like a superhero, or maybe a particularly brave cat. their next door neighbours had a cat, and on sunny days it perches itself on the fence between their houses, watching crows and dragonflies dance in the air. iver isn’t allowed to have any pets, but he doesn’t mind it all that much. he had asked for a puppy for christmas when he was six, and his father had sat him down and told him that no pets were allowed in the house, because they couldn’t be trusted. he’d said something about spies and the government, all of which flew right over iver’s head, but he’d never asked about it again.
a while after he resorts to picking at a piece of loose thread on the knee of his school trousers, the car slows to a stop, and he’s greeted by the familiar view of their driveway when he glances out through the windshield. the rain is still going strong, beating down on the roof of the car, and shows no signs of stopping any time soon.
“okay,” his father starts, “tell you what. you stay here, and i’ll go open the front door. when i tell you to, you come run inside and take your shoes and socks off.”
he nods, and watches as his father braces for a moment before exiting the car, keys in hand, and bolting to the front door. rain soaks through his hair and jacket as he fiddles with the lock, but he manages to get the front door open. iver waits for the signal, and once his father nods, he follows. he slams the car door a little too loudly by accident, and half slips on a patch of mud as he rounds the driveway, but makes it through the door in a few seconds flat. he sits on the mudroom floor, undoing the sodden velcro on his shoes, when a realisation hits him.
“oh no! the milk! we left it in the car!”
“ah, you’re right. okay, hang on.”
before he can offer to go back out and get it himself, his father runs back into the rain, guarding his face with one arm, and fumbling with the car keys in the other hand. when he returns, carton of milk in hand, soaking wet from head to toe, iver raises his arms in the air and cheers for him.
“there we go, milk’s all sorted. oh- hello, love.”
iver turns his head, and finds his mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen. he waves at her, but she must not catch it, as she doesn’t stop to look at him.
“you’re back quite late.” she announces, eyes glued to his father.
“yes, well- he had his appointment today, remember? we had to go a few towns over, and the rain made for terrible traffic on the way home. ive, could you get me a towel from the cupboard, please?”
he nods, and gives him mother a small smile as he makes his way through to the linen cupboard. the towels in here always feel gross and crunchy when they’re clean, but he doesn’t think his father will mind too much. he takes a quick detour to the bathroom to scrunch some of the water out of his curls, before continuing back down the hallway.
“here you go. towel.”
his father is busy shrugging off his jacket as he comes back in, but smiles as he takes the towel from his hands.
“there you are. good boy. i was just telling your mamma how good you’ve been today. very well behaved.”
iver feels his cheeks warm as a hand combs its way through his hair, his eyes darting across the floor. he suddenly registers the bulk in his pockets, and looks up at his mother with a grin, fishing out the bag of chocolates hidden inside.
“i forgot, i got you something from the supermarket!”
he places the crinkled bag into her hands, scanning her face for any kind of reaction. she stares at the bag, then stares at him. he blinks, confused, as he feels it press back into his own hands.
“wait, but…i got them for you?”
he turns to look at his father, watching as several emotions ripple across his face within a few seconds. a look of encouragement turns into one of confusion, then slowly morphs into an indescribable glare.
“give them to someone else. i don’t want them.”
he can hardly process the rejection before she walks off, leaving the two of them to stand in stunned silence. the paper bag weighs heavy in his hands, and he stares directly at the puddle beneath his feet as the beginnings of hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
“…am i in trouble?”
his voice wobbles horribly as he speaks, and a freezing hand comes to rest on his cheek, thumb stroking in small circles.
“of course you’re not in trouble.” his father lets out a strained kind of sigh, running a hand through his own hair, tangled by the rain. “how about you give these to your friends at school instead?”
he hates the way that he immediately flinches at the suggestion, rapidly shaking his head back and forth. he doesn’t want to mention that he doesn’t exactly have any friends anymore, because he would have to explain why, and he isn’t quite sure himself. what he does know is that giving your friends something like this isn’t okay anymore, not like it used to be when he was smaller, and doing anything of the sort results in being showered with nicknames you never asked for. the kids at school have a seemingly endless supply of nicknames that he doesn’t know the meaning of, besides the fact that they mean something is terribly wrong with you, and you should do everything possible to not be those things, even if it feels cold and unfriendly.
“okay, that’s alright. perhaps not, then. how about i keep them safe for you until you can figure out what you want to do with them?”
that seems like a better idea, so he nods, and gingerly sets the bag down on the console table nearby. he then moves to straighten his shoes in the shoe rack, just in case.
“…hey, i know you normally have a shower before bed, but how about you go have one now, so you don’t catch a cold? i’ll light the fire so that it’s nice and warm out here when you’re done.”
he nods, before silently trudging upstairs to gather some dry clothes from his bedroom. it’s not quite late enough for pyjamas yet, so he pulls out whatever is stuffed at the top of his drawers; a striped long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of jeans that are a little too short at the ankles for him now, but feel more comfortable than his newer pairs. he vaguely remembers leaving his hairbrush in here a few days ago, and spends a few minutes searching for it, before finding it on the floor by the bed, half kicked underneath it in the rush to get ready for school. he sets the clean clothes down on the bed, discards his school jumper somewhere behind him, and yanks the hair tie out of his ponytail. his hair is long enough now that the teachers at school have started making him wear it tied up, instead of being able to wear it down like he normally does. at least they hadn’t made him cut it short, but he had considered it once or twice after a kid in his class started calling him ivy.
he doesn’t mind looking a bit like a girl, but he really hates when people use it as an excuse to be mean to him. he knows that he’s a boy, and having long hair isn’t going to change that, but some people think otherwise. his own father has long hair just like him, and it used to reach down his back before he cut it shorter a few years ago, because it got in the way too much. he wonders if it’s different for him, though, because he knows that his father used to be a girl, and maybe that makes it more okay for him to have long hair.
he likes it, though. he gets told quite often that he looks just like his father, and that makes him feel very proud. the only resemblance he really has to his mother is one icy blue-grey eye and a light smattering of freckles across his nose that get a little darker in the summertime. the rest of him is all his father’s features. his curly hair, roman nose, and the other eye a deep, earthy brown.
he spends another few minutes gently brushing small tangles from his hair, trying not to drop the hairbrush onto the floor as it becomes slippery from the leftover rain water. eventually, he grows frustrated with the fumbling and tugging at his head, so the brush gets discarded on the dresser in favour of his clean clothes. there’s still a strange pit of mixed emotions resting inside him, and he feels a little bit sick at the idea of going back downstairs to greet his mother again, so with calculated steps, he creeps down the stairs as quietly as possible. he knows where all of the creaks are by now, and has them mapped out in his head so he doesn’t make any sort of noise. the third to last stair always makes a horrid groaning noise when anyone stands on in, so he skips it entirely by stretching his leg until it hits the floor at the bottom, and using the railing to steady himself as he does the same with the other leg. he can hear voices in the next room, ones that aren’t quite shouting, but aren’t doing a great job at being quiet, either. he knows that if he stays by the far wall, he can get to the bathroom without being seen, and he uses this opportunity to listen in on the conversation, even if eavesdropping is probably the wrong thing to do.
“…so what, you think i should give him special treatment because some stuck up doctor in stockholm says he’s sick in the head? look at him, he’s perfectly fine. i only agreed for you to take him to that stupid woman in the first place to get you to shut up about it.”
“no,” his father interjects, stern, but somehow sounding much calmer than his mother, “that’s not what i’m saying. he’s not ‘sick in the head’, he’s autistic, and it has nothing to do with this. your reaction was cruel, cecilie. there’s nothing stopping you from just saying thank you and letting him feel good about something. that isn’t special treatment, it’s decency.”
“coddling him will get him nowhere, åke. that’s exactly what you’re asking me to do.”
there’s a brief pause before his mother continues, and he can practically hear the smirk in her voice.
“do you want your son to grow up to be half a man, just like you? would it make you feel less sorry for yourself if your son was a spineless mental case too?”
there’s several seconds of weighty silence, and iver makes a break for the bathroom the moment he hears footsteps coming towards him. he shuts the bathroom door softly behind him, and tries not to dwell on the conversation he definitely wasn’t supposed to hear. a great mass of sorrow rises to the back of his throat, and before it can escape and echo against the pale blue tile, he turns the shower on as hard as he can. even though he’s more than old enough to do these things by himself now, he still isn’t quite sure how to work the separate taps on the wall, despite being taught how several times. it never quite stuck in his head, but he figures that it’s much too late to ask to be taught again, so his showers are always either freezing or scalding hot. today, it’s a very hot shower, and it mostly consists of standing in the corner so the water doesn’t burn his feet, and systematically running parts of himself under the water just long enough to rinse the soap from his skin without burning it.
once he’s dried himself off and put himself in fresh clothes, he notices a dull ache behind both of his eyes, which are both looking quite red, but chooses to ignore it in favour of dumping his uniform and towel into the laundry hamper. he can’t tell if he’s been crying or not, but he knows that he really wants to. there’s a brief moment where he considers locking himself inside the bathroom until his parents have both gone to bed, just so he doesn’t have to face whatever is out there. he knows that his father will need the shower after him, though, so he quietly makes his way to the living room instead.
his parents have both stormed off, it seems, so he has the room to himself for now. there’s the vague sounds of dinner being made in the kitchen, so he decides that he has enough time to play video games for a while before having to go eat.
he boots up his wii, his big gift from last year’s christmas, sits in the middle of the floor, and waits as the spinning disk morphs into the title screen for his favourite game, animal crossing: city folk. the game didn’t come with a swedish translation, nor did any of the other games he had for the console, so he had settled for a japanese copy instead. he could understand about a third of the dialogue, usually helped along by his father, but his fluency in japanese was marginally better than in english, and the copy was slightly cheaper. he didn’t exactly know how to play the game properly, anyway, so most of his time was spent planting flowers and catching various fish and bugs. as he explores the town’s museum, wandering through pixelated displays of dinosaur fossils, he hears his father’s voice behind him, haunted by a strange, defeated tone.
“fifteen minutes until dinner.”
“okay, pappa.”
he hears footsteps trail off towards the bathroom, and a few moments later, the water starts running, so he turns his attention back towards the half completed triceratops exhibit.
dinner comes and goes, but not without a thick tension blanketing the table. nobody speaks, for the most part, and iver doesn’t particularly want to be the one to break the silence, so he sits in his chair and does his best to not let his spoon clink too loudly against his teeth.
it’s his father who eventually speaks up, doing so cautiously, while spooning the leftover ärtsoppa into a yellowed tupperware.
“ive, how did you feel about the lady you talked to today? did you like her?”
he hesitates before answering, eyes glued to the bowl of soup in front of him.
“she was okay.”
“well,” his father continues, “if you’d like to, you can see her again. she might be able to help you with…” he trails off, “…coping. does that sound like something you’d like to do?”
he can barely even open his mouth to respond before his mother’s chair scrapes harshly against the kitchen floor.
“for fucks sake, åke. stop pushing this agenda onto him. if he doesn’t want to go along with it, he doesn’t have to.”
he knows better than to interject and tell her that it’s okay, he doesn’t mind, but his father seems to feel brave, so he turns to face her.
“come on, don’t do this in front of him. you know i don’t have an agenda, i just want what’s best for him. i’m figuring this out by myself, you know. if you won’t help, fine, but you don’t get to dictate what is and isn’t good for him.”
the room falls into a pin-drop silence, and iver’s eyes flicker between the two of them, waiting for someone to say something. it’s his mother that does, and he almost winces at the way her face turns into something so sweetly sinister.
“sweetheart, you’re getting quite riled up, aren’t you? i’m not sure that’s necessary, especially while your son is in the room.”
she pauses, and iver knows exactly what comes next. it always does.
“åke, did you take your medication today? i think you might need to. it isn’t fair on us for you to act like this, you know.”
he watches as his father’s face goes blank, eyes darting across the room.
“yes, i did. of course i did. this…has nothing to do with that, and you know it doesn’t.”
his mother hums. “i don’t know if i believe you. would you really be acting like this if you were in your right mind? i think you should go cool down for a while, don’t you?”
his father draws a complete blank, visibly growing more confused and frustrated, until he wordlessly sets down the tupperware and exits the room.
“you know how he can be when he’s like this. you can’t trust anything he says. if you’re finished eating, rinse your bowl and go get ready for bed.”
he doesn’t need any more prompting, and quickly gets up to set his bowl in the sink. for good measure, he takes the tupperware and find a place for it in the fridge before making himself scarce.
once he’s back in his room, he glances at the digital clock on his bedside table, and it reads 7:37 PM. still too early to go to bed, he thinks, and it’s a friday night after all. he spends a few minutes half-heartedly tidying, picking a few things up off of the floor and putting them in various other places. he also does his best to straighten up his bed, smoothing down his covers until they look slightly more presentable, and lining up his teddies in their designated chronological order. his favourite sits at the very front, but he always feels a little sorry for the others, so he gives them each a good pat on the head and straightens their ribbons as compensation. the rain has slowed to a much more manageable drizzle by now, a steady yet gentle drumming against his bedroom window. it’s almost calming, in a way, but would probably be much more effective if the vague sick feeling wasn’t still wallowing inside him.
it’s not just his parents arguing that upsets him, really. he’s actually gotten quite good at tuning out the kind of loud noises that used to set him off much more easily, like the loud rattling of old trucks and the echoes of shouting voices, so it’s not necessarily the fighting itself that makes him feel like this. it’s the way they always take a turn. it doesn’t matter what the argument was about, or how loud it ends up getting, his mother always finds a way to blame it on his father, just so she can feel like she’s won something, and he always truly believes that it’s his fault. that’s the part that really gets to him. he wishes that he was older and smarter, that he knew some way to come to his father’s defence when he needed it, but he knows that nobody will really listen to an eight (almost nine) year old, especially not his mother. he’s always known that his father has been unwell, and that it started back when he was still a teenager, but he doesn’t know the full story. his father doesn’t like to talk about it with him very often, which he supposes makes sense, because it seems like more of a grown up conversation. from what he understands, his mind wanders a lot. he spends a lot of time staring at what seems like nothing, not listening to whatever is already going on. he gets frustrated quite easily sometimes, and has some very strange opinions that nobody can change, even if they really do try, like the dogs and the spies. sometimes, he overhears people tell his father that it must be difficult for iver to handle him, but he’s never seen it that way. it definitely affects his father much more than it affects him, and he’s never seen it as an inconvenience, moreso just another thing to be mindful of.
he remembers, suddenly, that he still has his own bag of sweets. he picks his school jumper up off of the ground, and fishes the paper bag out of the pocket. both the bag and the jumper are still damp, and he should probably go and put it in the washing machine so it’s ready for school next week, but he figures that he can do it tomorrow, once everything has had the time to calm down. he’ll only have a few pieces now, and he’ll just make sure to brush his teeth afterwards. they all seem to have melted slightly while in his pocket, and have re-solidified partially stuck together, so he picks a piece with as few stuck together as possible and pops it in his mouth.
his face immediately scrunches up as the harsh taste of aniseed hits him all at once.
he doesn’t spit them out, because that would be rude, but he does have to force himself to swallow the mouthful, tears already welling up in his eyes. he doesn’t even know why he starts crying, really. nothing truly terrible has happened, but the combination of several upsetting things all in one evening feels like far too much to handle with grace. it feels selfish to think this way, but it all just seems so unfair. when he was younger and used to go to his friend’s houses for play dates, their parents were friendly, and never got mad at him or his friends for making too much noise, or being too excited about things, or for being seen and heard. their mothers left them nice notes in their school bags, and sat at the table with them while they did their homework. his mother had never done any of those things. it was as if she didn’t want him at all, and having him around was an inconvenience, no matter how hard he tried to not be an irritant. he doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong, and why he doesn’t deserve the same kind of affection that everybody else gets.
eventually, he manages to stop his tears, and vigorously scrubs his eyes dry with his shirt sleeves. he looks back at the paper bag, which he had subconsciously tossed onto his bed. maybe, he thinks, his father would like them instead. they taste pretty similar to his salty liquorice, and the extra sweets would probably help cheer him up a little. he doesn’t want him to know that he’s been crying, so he waits for a few minutes, sitting and watching a few cars travel down the road through his window, headlights casting tall shadows onto his bedroom walls, waiting for the colour in his face to return to normal. once his face feels a little less hot and stingy, he grabs the bag and quietly tiptoes towards his parent’s bedroom down the hallway.
the big light seems to be turned off, and he can’t hear any voices or movement from inside, so perhaps his father wasn’t in here after all. he might have gone back downstairs some time during his tantrum, and he just couldn’t hear it. oh well, no big deal, he could just set the bag down onto his bedside table for him to find later. so, very gently, he opens the door, not wanting to be caught in the act, but quickly stops himself.
his father is inside, it turns out. he’s sitting on the edge of their bed, eerily still and completely silent. his head is resting in his hands, and with the way his hair drapes over his face, he can’t completely tell if he’s crying or not. it was always strange, seeing his father cry. not because he judged him at all, but because it filled him with a deep sense of helplessness. he almost, almost, takes the opportunity to walk in, to sit down next to him and do his best to comfort the one that normally comforts him, but he stays still, feet planted to the ground. he watches from the crack in the door as he sits up, hands coming to rest in his lap. he stares into space for a moment, as if considering something, before silently reaching underneath his bedside table, feeling for something on the bottom.
iver knows that he absolutely should not be watching, and begins to feel a deep sense of guilt welling up in his chest, but something unexplainable keeps his eyes entirely transfixed on what’s going on in front of him.
his hands come back to his lap, and there’s something shiny resting in his palm. he can’t quite make out what it is in the dark. for a moment, he thinks it might be…some kind of key? he has no idea why he would be hiding something like that, but maybe there’s some kind of secret room in their house that he isn’t aware of. he’s even more curious, now, and watches very carefully as his father slowly bunches up one of his sleeves. he seems to hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he’s doing, before he brings the shiny item to his wrist. it takes a second for iver to process what exactly he’s doing, but once he sees something dark begin to drip down his arm, his breath catches in his throat.
he closes his bedroom door behind him. he doesn’t remember leaving the doorway and coming back, but he’s standing here, a thousand different things running through his head all at once. it’s loud, it’s terribly loud, and he can’t make sense of any of it, so instead, he begins the automatic process of changing into his pyjamas and getting into his bed. his father definitely hadn’t seen him standing there, but what on earth was he doing? he mulls over the recent memory, replaying it over and over and over again in a desperate attempt to make sense of what he saw. it might have been a strange prank, he decides, with lots of special effects makeup. maybe he’s practicing for his halloween costume, even if it’s a good few months away, and they hardly ever celebrate it because the people at church told them not to. it doesn’t exactly make sense, but it’s the only semi-reasonable explanation he can think of, so he tries to settle on it.
he lays there in complete silence, watching as the numbers on his digital clock slowly tick up, eventually exceeding his regular bedtime. somewhere in the distance, a few late night passenger trains pass through the town station, and he tries his best to shift his focus to the idea of taking a day trip on one of them some time. he doesn’t know much about trains, really, but he always hears them come in to the station at the same times every day and night, the same honking noises carrying through the air. it might be nice to go to oslo some day, although he doesn’t know if you can take the train there or not. his aunt goes there a few times a year to visit old friends, and she seems to like it there, at least. if he tries hard enough, he can picture him and his father sitting in train carriage and watching the world pass them by through the windows. he might bring it up with him some time, just in case he says yes.
a faint knock sounds at his door, and another quick glance at the time says that it’s far past his bedtime, so he does his best to pretend that he’s already asleep. the door creaks open, and he peeks out of one eye to find his father looking in. he seems to be doing a convincing enough job at fake-sleeping, so he closes his eyes again and waits for him to leave.
he doesn’t, though. instead, he quietly enters, and iver feels the mattress dip as his father sits down. he doesn’t even flinch when a gentle hand comes to brush a lock of hair out of his face.
“i’m sorry, little man.” his voice is almost inaudible, and sounds so, so tired. “i wish today had gone better for you, i really do.”
there’s a few moments of silence, and iver desperately wants to take the opportunity to ask him about what he was doing, just to make any sense of it. that would mean admitting that he was spying, though, which would probably get him into a lot more trouble than he’s in already, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“…tomorrow will be better, i promise. i love you so, so much. i really hope you know that.”
another few moments pass, and he feels his father stand up and walk towards the doorway. he seems to linger for a while, but iver doesn’t open his eyes to see why. he hears a barely-there “goodnight”, and the door closes behind him, swamping the room in darkness once again.