June 8, 2018

You linger in the doorway at the foot of the stairs for several minutes. You watch as Erik tidies up the living room. He dumps a large basket of clean linens onto the sofa and begins to sort and fold them. You wait for the him to say something or to acknowledge you somehow. He does neither.

You consider clearing your throat. But that seems a bit too pedestrian. Obviously, Erik is aware of your presence and is choosing not to address you. You think, perhaps, he is waiting for you to speak first. You open your mouth to do so...but then you hesitate. Because you still haven't quite worked it out, just what it is that you're planning to say. You lick your lips a few times, as though the act alone can somehow provide you with the appropriate words. You've always taken pride in your ability to turn a phrase, and yet you are struggling to scrape together a coherent sentence.

Another minute ticks by, sluggishly. The suspense continues to build, and you find yourself buckling under its weight.

"I...appear to have caused you some grief," you finally offer. "Please accept my sincerest regrets."

It's not the most well-crafted statement you've ever made. Nor is it the least. Still, it should be more than sufficient for your purposes.

Erik does not glance up from what he is doing, however.

"Did you hear me?" you ask, feeling vaguely silly.

There is a small table in the center of the room. You take a few steps forward and stop in front of it. Although there is a couch on either side of the table, you do not sit down.

"I heard you," is Erik's soft reply.

You stand up a little straighter, now that you know you have his attention.

"Well, it's customary to respond when someone speaks to you," you announce, brazenly.

"Is that right?" Erik sounds thoroughly unimpressed.

He glances up at you, briefly. For a moment it seems like he might say more. But he doesn't. He just keeps folding the linens and setting them into the basket.

You exhale slowly, trying to maintain your composure. You despise being ignored. But you've endured much ghastlier forms of alienation. And you will not allow yourself to be baited. You are far too dignified to lose control of your temper over something as paltry as this.

"I just thought perhaps you might have more to say on the matter," you prompt.

Erik looks up again.

"Oh? Such as what?"

"I...don't know," you admit.

You are puzzled by his reaction. You were expecting far more resistance: a litany of grievances against you, for example, or at least an accusation of insincerity. You would almost prefer to argue, because arguing is productive. Unlike whatever it is that you're doing now, which is beginning to feel like a tremendous waste of time.

Compared to Asgardian men, Erik is extremely passive. Not only is he ridiculously patient, but he appears averse to rage and aggression. You refused to believe that anyone could be so sedate, of course. Unable to betray your mercurial nature, your immediate instinct was to shake the other man up, break loose the darker parts of him that had become hidden deep within and force them out into the open.

You recall how enthusiastically you scrolled through the pages of news articles, desperately trying to find some shred of evidence that could be used to disparage Erik's impeccable character. At the time, it seemed like a rather grand idea. It certainly made for a splendid distraction from your own troubles, which you have become relatively adept at avoiding. Earth's internet technology is somewhat rudimentary in design, and fairly effortless to navigate. Your initial searches yielded countless videos of Erik streaking through some sort of architectural ruins, sans clothing...a bout of lunacy from his not so distant past. Despite its obvious entertainment potential, you ultimately elected against exploiting such material. For one thing, Erik did not appear prone to embarrassment. And contrary to popular belief, you were not inclined to wanton cruelty. Your goal wasn't to humiliate the man. You merely wanted to demonstrate that he was no more virtuous than yourself.

When you notified Erik of your discovery, you had genuinely expected to experience some degree of satisfaction...some rush or momentary thrill of victory. Your only reward, however, was the confused and wounded expression on his face.

Afterwards, you retreated instantly to your room. To do what, you did not know. You paced and mulled and paced some more. Erik did not disturb you, except to inquire periodically as to whether you were hungry. You had informed him, quite petulantly, that you were not. Which was, naturally, a lie. And an utterly pointless one. For it was painfully apparent that Erik had no intention whatsoever of liberating you from your solitude. You had been secluded to the dungeons for a far greater stretch of time, and managed not to succumb to madness. And yet, after only a few days in your room, you felt desperate to escape. And thus, you became determined to smooth things over with your host, if not just to put an end to the excruciating tedium.

"This is not an apology," Erik concludes, frankly. He plucks a towel from the pile and folds it in half. "This is damage control."

You frown at his assessment. You cannot fathom why he is being so difficult. But if he thinks you're going to grovel, he is sorely mistaken.

"I'm afraid I don't follow," you claim, innocently. You tilt your head slightly and bat your eyelashes. It's a shameless gesture, and one you've not relied upon since you were still in your youth.

Erik is unmoved by your charms.

"Yes, you do."

Your lips part, as you consider the other man's observation. It's unlikely that he could have dissected you so quickly. But you've spent several weeks together now. And given your personal history, that's more than enough time for familiarity to breed contempt.

Erik regards you a moment, meeting you with a bold stare. While he's as calm as ever, you don't like the way he's studying you. His eyes scan the full length of your body, before once again landing upon your face. The persistent attention makes you uneasy, and you're suddenly compelled to avert your gaze.

When you first arrived at Erik's home, you were gifted some basic clothing items. And though you courteously acknowledged the other man's charity, you prefer your illusions. Your current ensemble is hardly elaborate enough to qualify as traditional Asgardian attire. But it's certainly more presentable than any of the garments Erik provided you with. You know there is no logical reason behind your need to maintain a facade. You're simply accustomed to feeling more polished on the outside than reality allows. In this climate your hair is susceptible to frizz. You aren't sure about the rest of the planet. But this particular patch of Earth is far more humid than you're used to. And while you know there are probably products available that are designed to help one manage such things, you still find it easier to rely on magic. You know that Erik is merely a human and that his perceptions are limited. Yet the way he is eyeing you makes you wonder whether he can actually see through your disguise.

"I didn't lie to you, you know," Erik notes, "not intentionally, anyway."

"Meaning?"

"You asked if I had any children, and I told you that I didn't. Because I don't...anymore."

You respond to his rationalization with a derisive snort. He ignores it.

"I had a son. His name was Lars, and he was born with a congenital heart defect. He needed a transplant. But a suitable donor was never found. He was sick most of his life, and he died when he was five. His mother and I divorced shortly afterwards, and we haven't kept in touch."

You nod politely, although that is hardly the explanation you were expecting. When you discovered that Erik indeed had a child, you pictured a grown man who was the spitting image of his father, perhaps living in another city somewhere. Moreover, you assumed that if Erik were hiding something it would at least be something worth concealing, something beyond mere sentiment.

It quickly becomes clear that your attempt at a resolution has been unsuccessful. You wonder why he is just sitting there, why he isn't demanding that you leave his home or calling upon some higher authority to have you forcibly removed. Either way, you doubt there is anything more you can say that will help the situation. You decide to return to your room, while you can still consider it such.

"Though it might interest you to know," Erik adds, bluntly, "that I was a lousy father."

You halt in the doorway, undeniably curious. You rotate your body a few degrees, just enough that you can see his face.

"I drank...a lot," Erik confesses. "I mostly drank so I didn't have to deal with the fact that my son was dying, or that I had nothing in common with his mother, who I'd only married because she was pregnant. She was a decent woman...a good woman. But I wasn't happy with her. All I cared about was my research. And when my son died, I felt relieved, because it meant we could finally get divorced. I didn't care how she felt. I didn't care how my son felt. I just cared about myself. When I finally sobered up, I realized what a selfish piece of shit I was..."

You're caught off guard by the nakedness of his disclosure. You're not used to people confiding you so forthrightly. Where you come from, people rarely spoke so freely about their personal affairs, and they especially avoided sharing anything that would paint them in a poor light. Asgardians were more liable to gossip about one another's failures behind closed doors. Oddly enough, this is exactly the sort of information you were trying to get your hands on just a few days earlier. Now that it's being offered to you willingly, you aren't sure that you want it.

"I don't understand why you're telling me all of this," you grumble loudly.

"You accused me of being a liar," Erik explains, candidly. "I just thought you should have all the facts."

"You are mocking me," you huff.

"No," he asserts. "I would never do that."

You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You're exhausted, both physically and mentally. You have not slept properly since prior to your arrival...for a number of reasons that you would rather not consider. But you suspect that, were you more well rested, you probably could have avoided this confrontation altogether.

"The thing is," you begin, "I didn't know that he was dead."

You hate the sound of your own voice...weary and defeated. You suppose it's unfortunate that you are so well known for telling lies. Your rare moments of honesty tend to fall on deaf ears.

"Didn't come across that information during your extensive, Google research session, I take it?"

It's peculiar, how effectively he manages to sound both sympathetic and condescending in equal measure. He's obviously not angry. It seems more like he's just...disappointed.

You are quiet for several seconds. You want to go back upstairs, if not just to escape the incredible awkwardness of the conversation. But after what Erik just shared, it feels foolish to simply walk away. Although all common sense points to the contrary, you are still convinced that you can recover some measure of control over the situation.

"Look," you state, diplomatically, "I had no business prying into your private affairs..."

"I don't care about what you did," Erik informs you, matter-of-factly.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"I would not mind, however, knowing why you did it."

You clench your fists in frustration. Any other person would be seething with ire. They would be yelling and berating you or banishing you from their sight...not casually pondering your motives.

You don't understand what difference it makes why you did it. No one has ever cared about your reasons before. In fact, they generally tend to assume that you have none.

You know that you can easily press the issue, engage in a tiresome back and forth until you are both exasperated and spent. In the wake of so much tragedy, it doesn't seem like a worthwhile use of energy. Though Erik's true agenda continues to remain a mystery to you, so far he has been exceedingly benevolent. And while the man is eccentric, and possibly lacking in discernment, he isn't stupid. There's a dormant shame within you that begins to resurface, and you wonder why the hell you felt so compelled to stir up unnecessary trouble in the first place. You cringe as you are once again reminded that you've yet to outgrow your penchant for self-sabotage.

"Very well," you propose, cautiously. "In light of your gracious hospitality...I shall endeavor to mind my business from now on."

Erik doesn't address your statement directly. He folds his hands atop the towels that are in his lap.

"I know that you're in pain," he says, "and I'm sorry for that. But that doesn't give you the right to treat other people like crap."

It's evident that the other man is annoyed with you. His words suggest as much. Yet the remark is delivered with unusual tenderness. Unfortunately, your tolerance for pity is somewhat limited. And even if you were in pain, which you are most definitely not, it would be none of his concern.

Your rebuttal is slow and calculated.

"I assure you sir, that no degree of my predicament is worthy of your sympathy."

His reply is immediate.

"And I assure you that any sympathy I might harbor for you or your predicament is not based on worthiness."

"You...you think I deserve this," you whisper, looking down at your feet.

Naturally, you don't specify what this is. Because you aren't really speaking for his benefit. You're only thinking out loud. You typically exercise more care with your words. Somehow, these manage to escape your lips before you can give them proper consideration. It crossed your mind, of course, that your survival was not the result of random events, but some sort of punishment. Perhaps it is the universe's way of collecting its pound of flesh, a penalty for all the damage that you've done. But that begs the question...what of your own grievances? Who settles that debt? Are your sins truly so great that your own suffering matters not? And what point is there in asking, when there is no one left to answer?

Your eyes fall closed, as you have no desire to see the expression on his face. Surely he will be unable to resist the opportunity to claim his victory, now that he's gotten a glimpse of how pathetic you truly are. At the very least, he will further reprimand you for your indiscretion.

But he does not.

"I think the only person who actually believes that is you," he replies.

You lift your head, hesitantly. Though you are confident that you heard incorrectly, you are not about to ask for clarification.

"Life isn't about what we deserve," Erik adds. "I used to think the reason my son died was because I didn't deserve him. I wasn't a good father. I didn't appreciate him; therefore, he was taken away. Kind of a naive point of view for an atheist, I'll admit..."

"Condolences," you mumble, cheekily.

For the first time since you met, Erik raises his voice.

"Don't patronize me," he scolds, sharply.

He raises a finger and points it at you. "You don't get to patronize me."

You open your mouth. But he cuts you off before you can launch your defense.

"I know better than most what you are capable of," he declares. "I know you could easily kill me, if you really wanted to. But I have a choice. I have a choice in how I respond to you, and I choose not to respond with fear. Because I think, when it comes down to it, that you're more of a danger to yourself than you are to anyone else. Maybe that's the way you like it. I don't know why the hell you'd want that, but it's not going to do a damn thing for you here. Do you understand?"

You knew that it was only a matter of time before he breached this particular topic. Given the circumstances, his inquiry is perfectly justified. And thus, it makes no sense that you should take offense.

"I'm not going to kill you," you mutter under your breath. "Don't be absurd..."

He rises from his seat.

"I asked you a question, son."

Your ears prick up unexpectedly at his use of the word, son. It triggers a disturbing and completely involuntary physical reaction. There is an undeniable shift in your posture to that of one more subdued and sheepish. When the heat rushes to your face, you know that a faint blush is also spreading its way across your cheeks. You're somewhat relieved that you possess the ability to alter your physical appearance.

Though you are intelligent enough to surmise that being quarrelsome is a poor way to allege one's maturity, your instinct is to protest being referred to so crudely. He is but a mortal, whose existence is as fleeting as that of a common insect. And you are a god. Or you used to be, at least. You're not sure what you are anymore. You're certainly not feeling particularly godlike at the moment. But he holds no authority over you. And despite whatever kindnesses he has extended thus far, he has no right to address you in this manner.

"I'm not a child," you insist.

"Is that so?" he probes, incredulously. "Then perhaps you should stop behaving like one."