False Starts (Retrofitting the Pieces (1/4); 31_days, 09/04)
Title: False Starts
Series: Retrofitting the Pieces (1/4)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of abuse
Characters: Sven Kramer, Håvard Bøkko, Naomi van As
Pairing: gen
Disclaimer: Over 100% lies.
Word Count: Around 350.
Notes: Written for 31_days's 09/04 prompt (The end of something). Also, future fic. Also also, not a happy one. Uh, obviously, I guess.
Summary: Håvard shows up at their doorstep looking like hell, buried in a black coat that’s too big on him, and a black hat pulled down so low his lashes brush the rim.
Two years. And seven months. And fifteen days. (And, to be precise, sixteen hours, thirty-seven minutes and give-or-take forty-nine seconds.)
Start to end.
From the day he met her (it was a Saturday, it was summer and it was stupidly hot; so was she) to the day he finally, finally gets out.
***
Håvard shows up at their doorstep looking like hell. He’s buried in a black coat that’s too big on him, and a black hat pulled down so low his lashes brush the rim.
It still doesn’t hide all of his bruises.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he just says ‘Come in,’ and tries to get his thoughts under control to be, you know, helpful. Håvard brushes past him, small and silent like a-hell, like a shadow. It should be funny, but it just hurts.
After a few seconds he remembers to close the door. His brain has fucking locked up.
***
He doesn’t know all the details, but he knows enough. Before they fell out of touch (after oneyear/twomonths/twentysixdays/eighthours), Håvard would talk about it. Sometimes. He can only imagine it got worse since then.
***
Naomi excuses herself.
Sven pretends he can’t see the anger in her movements or hear the frustration in her footsteps.
***
Håvard has an old bruise blooming on his cheekbone, a cut over his right eyebrow, another bruise on his left temple. Red scratches on his neck that his collar can’t quite hide.
He still doesn’t know what to say. Are you okay? is out of the question, because duh; I’m glad you’re here is certainly true but it doesn’t seem right. But it’s been fifteen minutes and they’ve said two words to each other. Well, he’s said two words to Håvard. Which is probably worse.
‘Hey,’ he begins, awkwardly, because there’s a gap in their familiarity and he doesn’t know what to do.
Håvard does look up at him, but stays quiet.
‘Ho-how are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Håvard admits. ‘Tired. Scared.’
‘Oh.’
It’s a start. Not much of one, but it’s a start.