Berwald

His employer knew him as Bernard Ottosson, though the name seemed completely ridiculous. A nagging voice in the back of his head wondered just how long his employer would know him. One of these days, he would see the resemblance he bore to "that convict from TV" and turn him in; to return to the hell he had freed himself of.

Convict. Another title that didn't belong to him, yet the world seemed to place it on his head. But Berwald Oxenstierna was a tainted name, and another thing St. John's Centre for Youth Correction stripped him of.

He was eleven when he convinced himself his parents would always love him. They had to; they had given him opportunities, fond memories, and a shoulder to cry on for the days the happiness had left him. Unfortunately, his parents never told him of the qualifications required to be their son. He blamed himself—he was an idiot for never bothering to learn them. He had assumed that living in one of the most gay-friendly countries in the world meant that his parents would accept him when he told them of his attraction towards some of the boys in his class. With Berwald's luck, he was the son of the only Swedish couple who would send their son to the darkest corner of the earth.

A shy, awkward eleven-year-old like him didn't belong in dusty classrooms that taught he was a failure and an abomination, in chambers that sent electric current through his veins as punishment for invisible crimes, in white rooms so silent the sound of tears sounded like thunder, in places where he would rather die than live another day. Who cared if all the happiness in Berwald's life was drained? Who cared if he never smiled again? Who cared if he was stoic? And who cared if his parents allowed this, left him to change into a person he barely recognized, for reasons he couldn't control?

Berwald sure as hell cared.

He could've been released two years earlier, had he not tried to escape the first time—only one guard was frozen—but how was Berwald supposed to know that he possessed such a weird talent? All he did was look at the man, and he stopped moving. But St. Joseph's thought he knew. They thought the devil was inside of him, possessing him . . . no, the devil could not escape into the outside world! Seventeen-year-old Berwald needed to stay, needed to allow himself to be "corrected", for his sins to be erased. He never thought he could detest someone quite as much as he detested the faces that wandered St. Joseph's, prepared to give him a new, inhumane treatment every night. But he had an advantage—if the devil was possessing him, he wasn't going away. If he had to use his new oddity for evil, so be it.

He had been driven out of his home country, forced to assume a new name, forced to lead a new life. But he was free, and he was going to stay free if it killed him.

The day was like any other. He headed to work at seven-thirty in the morning. Despite his troubles, he did have a rather impressive set of carpentry skills, and IKEA had been happy to employ the harmless Bernard Ottosson. So he went about his regular business, standing by the customer service booth, answering questions about faulty assembly and missing pieces of chairs. He hated the social component of the job, but he dealt with it. The morning went by slowly, with few customers to deal with, to Berwald's delight. He didn't trust himself around people, and he didn't want anyone to have a close look at him, now that they've started reporting about him on the news. At one o'clock he picked up the newspaper, where he found a low-quality picture of himself with the headline Controversial Institution Searches for Mysterious Runaway. He didn't like how the news made him out to be dangerous, but Berwald couldn't exactly walk up to the press, introduce himself, and correct the mistake. He frowned as he continued to read about how Norwegians should "keep an eye out for mysterious activity". If anything, St. Joseph's deserved to be portrayed as what to watch out for—but the world never worked favorably to Berwald.

"Is this Customer Service? It says so, but this store is just a gigantic maze, and I can't trust any of the signs, because I always end up lost! Well, anyways, I have a question about a chair . . ." Berwald put the paper down to find a pale blonde boy with the sweetest face he had ever seen. The second he looked up, he wished he hadn't—he wouldn't forget that face, and the blush that colored his cheeks wouldn't disappear.

"Mm?" he asked, trying to collect himself. His eyes wandered the customer's face once again; Berwald felt a jolt of discomfort fill his veins. This boy was adorable. Immediately, he averted his eyes away. He couldn't deal with this, not after everything he's been trained to believe . . . and not to mention the danger he could put this customer in, because of his glare . . . "Can I help you?" he could barely form words. He didn't even know if the customer could understand him. Was it rude for him to look at the counter, rather than make eye contact? Berwald didn't want to upset him in any way, but he couldn't hurt him . . . he just wanted this person to leave. He couldn't bear his presence, it was irrational; it was irresistible.

"Um . . ." his voice was accented, but it didn't sound harsh. Berwald's stomach fluttered at the sound of this voice. He watched the customer's fidgeting hands. It was common for strangers to fear him, and with the recent news about him, some people may see him as a threat. Please, finish your business here. "I can't assemble this for the life of me, and all the instructions are in Swedish, and—" he broke off, noticing Berwald's face for the first time. His thoughts raced faster. Why couldn't he tear his eyes away from this boy? He wasn't supposed to feel this way! Yet he continued to stare, transfixed at this soft, cute face of his. He was putting this customer in danger, he was supposed to control his feelings . . .

" . . . Bernard," he said the name suspiciously, but Berwald's mind couldn't focus on anything. He had never been in a situation like this and he didn't know how to act. Consequently, he simply gawked at his customer, fully aware of how horrible he looked. "I'm so sorry! Do I sound weird? I didn't mean to sound weird; I just thought you resembled that guy they're looking for on TV—not that I think you're a criminal or anything!" he laughed with the obvious desire to be somewhere else. The word "criminal" stirred something in Berwald. He would not allow this cute customer to think of him as someone to be feared.

"Not a criminal," he stammered. "Have a chair, right?"

The blonde nodded a little too quickly. "Um, yeah . . . but do people say you look like him? Because you kind of do, and that can be a problem; imagine if someone called the police on you and you had to go to jail or something but you were innocent!" this boy had no idea what he was talking about. Berwald found it unbearably painful. "What did I come here for again? Oh yeah—the chair."

"'S not too hard. Can assemble it, if you want." At least a job would take his mind off of his thundering heart and the fear that settled uneasily in his chest. He got to work, though his hands moved faster than intended. This was not good. A complete stranger could recognize him as the "convict" from Sweden. It wasn't long before the rest of the world noticed.

"Again, so sorry for the mistake . . . you know, part of me was hoping you would be him. Weird, right? But I wouldn't let him get me. I was just thinking, it's kind of weird, isn't it, how he escaped?"

"Mm," Berwald nodded, continuing to work. He tried unsuccessfully to focus on what the customer said. He spoke incredibly fast, and his voice tied his stomach in knots . . . but it was what he said that caught his attention.

"I mean, the authorities all say the same thing, that he knocked them all unconscious and they never recovered, but they need to be realistic! In all the recordings of the escape, he never touched anyone, and they'd recover if they were knocked unconscious, right?" Berwald's heart hammered. This boy wasn't just suspicious. He was on to something.

"Who are you?" Berwald asked, unsure of the answer he'd get. He continued to work on the chair, to keep his hands busy, to keep himself from shaking with fear.

"Oh? I'm Tino. I'm from Finland, but I'm studying abroad in Norway. The reason I bought the chair is because my new apartment is so empty and it needs one . . . why are you asking?" Well, that explained the accent. It didn't explain much more.

"Wondering," he shrugged. "Chair's fixed." He pushed the chair towards the shorter Finn, who thanked him.

"What a relief! Furniture hates me, you know. If only I could find my way out of the store and fit the chair in the back of my car, that'd be great—"

"I'll help you," Berwald insisted, not realizing he had even spoken until after he did so. Tino's face lit up; Berwald felt energized by his bright eyes, but he had to stop staring . . . who knew what Tino would find out if he kept staring . . .

"Really? That's amazing! I thought the chair would explode or something if I had to carry it. And you know how to leave IKEA! I swear I'm never shopping here again! I haven't made any friends yet, so I can't tell them to shop here for me, and even so, I wouldn't trust their taste in furniture . . ." the two began to walk, with Berwald carrying the wooden chair as well as lead this customer out of the building. His heart hadn't stopped pounding, even though the conversation had shifted from the best and worst night of his life. What the talkative Finn had said earlier suddenly struck him: Part of me was hoping you would be him. But why? He had never explained. Who would want to run into somebody perceived as dangerous? Was he one of those trouble-making types? Berwald laughed mentally. The sweet-looking, adorable college student was anything but. He didn't even look like a college student. If anything, he looked like a picture St. Joseph's would show him, to trigger him, to shock him . . .

"Got a question," Berwald insisted.

"What?" Tino's eyes were trained on him; look away. Berwald stared at the chair he carried, unsure of how to phrase such an odd question.

"What would you do, if you ran into Oxenstierna?" Tino's eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Who? . . . Oh yeah, the guy on the news! Wow, how could I forget?" The two were now outside the building. Berwald put the chair in front of him. Tino looked thoughtful. "Well, this is going to sound really strange, and you probably already think I'm weird for all the questions I asked earlier, but . . . well . . . I'd ask him if he's super-human." Well, Berwald didn't expect him to answer with "call the police". Tino laughed shyly. "But he'd probably glare at me like I was some kind of weirdo! And then he'd use his advanced sight to freeze me, like the others . . ."

"Wouldn't do that," Berwald insisted. Tino shrugged.

"He could. It's a weird question, but I have to know, you see? Because—well, I'm kind of like him." The student suddenly appeared terrified. "Bernard, I want you to watch this." He watched Tino's expression change completely, from scared to focused. As he concentrated, the smooth skin of his arms molted into hard, gray steel. Berwald gaped at him in disbelief. He didn't know where his stare came from; he had eventually assumed that it was something St. Joseph's engrained in him through his torturous sessions. This contradicted everything. Was this even real? When he touched the Finn's arm, it felt cold and stiff. Tino's awkward laugh broke the silence between them. "Um, yeah, when I say I'm more metal than anyone in the world, I mean it literally." He shook his arm; after a bit of cursing, it returned back to its regular state. "I don't care if I'm seeking the help of someone dangerous. I need to know what's wrong with me, and why this happens, and if I'm not the only person in the world who can do this—do you understand, or am I just kind of weird?" Berwald nodded.

"Not weird," he insisted. "Just abnormal." He yearned to comfort him, but there was only one way to do so. Tino could learn the truth about him. He barely knew him, but he was looking for the mysterious, now heavily misunderstood refugee. Why not end his quest? This boy needed to understand.

Berwald needed to understand.

"Another question," he announced, his voice faltering. "If you found out that Oxenstierna's been standing in front of you this whole time, what would you do?"