Believe me, if I owned "Metalocalypse" we wouldn't still be waiting for Season 5. And all this would be canon. But I don't, so I write about it.
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"Toki."
It was hardly a breath, almost imperceptible beyond the rush of blood in his ear. But it was there, and it lingered. One pair of blue eyes caught the other, and the warmer pair widened because they knew he'd heard; they knew he knew.
"Toki."
He hadn't meant to let it slip like that. Because he cherished him, needed him, burned up from the inside when those eyes like glaciers found him in the early morning light, and no words were ever spoken, but they'd move a little bit closer and find an easy sleep again; but the man with the cold eyes was never supposed to find out how much he was needed, and the man with eyes like summer was never supposed to be this vulnerable.
"Toki."
How many times had he whispered, moaned, pleaded, gasped, and choked his name? Drawn out the final syllable with all the breath left in him as if it were a lifeline, a desperate prayer to the only god he ever did and ever would believe in?
"Toki."
The brows which so often supported the weight of Swedish pride now sat as even as the gaze beneath them; and opposite, only inches away, the equally common Norwegian incredulity (and beneath that, shy and hesitant, mirth).
He knows that he knows.
"Toki."
He said it again because he had to; because he might not ever be able to say those other things; and because the truth was out now (maybe it had been for some time), so he might as well tell the entirety of it. One word, minimalist, as was his style.
He might have said it again, but a forehead pressed against his and a voice, breathing normally again, answered.
"Skwisgaar."
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Thanks for reading and for reviews, if you're so inclined. If not, peace anyway.