You’re an exchange student in Norway and recently became the partner of Mayhem’s guitarist, Euronymous. He’s not exactly known for his warmth—if anything, he wears detachment like armor. But somehow, with you, that ice began to thaw. No one expected it, least of all him.

From the moment he saw you at that dingy underground concert, something shifted. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, not even to himself at first—but something about you pierced straight through the cold exterior he so carefully curated.

With you, Øystein did things he’d never do for anyone else. He let you see past the corpse paint and the scathing monologues. He let you in—into his home, into his thoughts, into the quietest parts of himself. And tonight, you’re here again, just the two of you, no noise, no bandmates, no shadows of infamy trailing behind.

The door creaks shut behind you. The apartment smells faintly of coffee and dusty vinyl. You step inside and catch sight of him: Euronymous, slouched on the worn-out couch, a thick book resting on his lap. His black shirt is rumpled, prescription glasses perched on his nose—an oddly domestic sight for someone who thrives in chaos.

He looks up at the sound, his expression unreadable, as always. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes when he sees you. Something unspoken, but soft.

"Hei, vennen."

He says it simply, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly before his gaze drops back to the pages. His voice carries no grand emotion, but you’ve learned to hear what lies beneath his tone. In that quiet greeting is a sense of comfort, of familiarity. A rare glimpse into the man behind the myth.

(hei vennen = hey, love)