In this Bed of Snowflakes We Lie by Sophia Soames

Author:Sophia Soames [Soames, Sophia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

There has been so much food that Oskar is not quite sure that he will be able to make it for any sort of run in the morning. Breakfast was just bread and brunost, but Oskar has never tasted brunost like it, locally made by some farmer whose kids are in Einar’s class. Lunch was fantastic, the fårepølse out of this world. And now Holger is grilling a massive slab of belly pork in the kitchen, whilst Geir is making kalrabistappe, and then there are medisterkaker and Christmas sausages ready in a pan. More of that home-made bread that Oskar has already had far too much of, with some amazing stinky French cheese and local butter, and it’s just... Wow.

There is a big tray of home-made cakes sitting on the coffee table in front of them, with gingerbread biscuits and ingefærnøtter and fattigman, and Oskar’s mouth is watering, kind of in disgust with himself. There are also krumkaker, with whipped cream.

He is definitely not hungry, but he is having one of those cream things. I mean. Hello.

“Mum does the whole seven varieties of cakes at Christmas. There are more to come, and then she has a kransekake for tomorrow. I am going to feel sick later. I always do. I can’t help myself.” Erik is laughing softly in Oskar’s ear.

“So, no caffeine, but she kills you all off with sugar?” Oskar teases, but he knows Erik will get what he means. It’s strange that... how comfortable he has felt all day. Accepted. Like he is one of them. When he clearly is not.

But he wants to be and it’s kind of painful to know that he doesn’t know where he stands. Because, how can he?

“Yeah, funny that.” Erik laughs and lets his nose touch Oskar’s cheek. Kind of paints a little line with the tip of his nose down the soft stubble, then recoils back in fear. He didn’t mean to do that. He just did it. A little caress. Like he couldn’t help himself. And it’s not like Oskar didn’t notice. Oskar who now sits there with a blush creeping over his cheeks and a cheeky smile on his face as he licks whipped cream off his fingertip.

It’s obscene. Filthy. And Erik is now sporting a semi in his joggers as Oskar takes another bite of his cake leaving a tiny smidge of cream on the tip of his nose.

There are children present. His father is sat opposite him, his deep belly-laugh echoing through the room as they all watch the Donald Duck’s Christmas program, a vintage collection of cartoon clips that is shown on Christmas Eve every year, and is of course religiously watched by every self-respecting human who owns a TV. His elderly uncle is hobbling past him making the sofa creak dangerously as the weight of him hits.

“Oh! It’s Ferdinand the bull,” Uncle A hums excitedly. ”My favourite. Every year.”

It still doesn’t help Erik snap out of this gruesome state he’s in, and yet he knows. If Oskar turns around and looks at him right now, Erik will probably come in his trousers.

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