Chapter Text
Jóhannes' headphones remain clamped on his ears the entire journey.
Early in the morning on a day where fog clings low to the ground, Jóhannes leans against Halvard's car, sunglasses perched on his face, as he taps his foot to a beat that only he can hear. He had flown in from Iceland last night in preparation for the annual trip to Berwald's cabin to celebrate the longest day of the year. He wasn't looking forward to the party, if he had to be honest. After a number of years the ritual had lost its charm, and he would have stayed in Reykjavik had he not had this unshakable feeling that he needed to come. For some reason, deep within his soul, Jóhannes felt the world needed him here, now, hundreds of miles from his home.
(Maybe it wasn't the world that needed him here. Maybe he needed to be here for himself.)
(But is there really a difference?)
Jóhannes stops tapping his foot as Henrik exits Halvard's house, smiling wildly and nearly hopping over to him. Really, it would have been easier for Henrik to simply drive himself over to Sweden by himself. Jóhannes had frowned that he had not one, but two people waiting for him at the airport gates. The first words that came out of Jóhannes mouth were harsh, questioning, genuinely confused as to why Henrik would go out of his way to meet him in Norway. Henrik just laughed, ruffled Jóhannes' hair, and exclaimed “glad to see you, too!” before pulling the three of them together into a hug.
Jóhannes is so distracted by Henrik's presence (as the Dane is double checking to make sure everything they need is loaded in the car) that he doesn't realize his brother is outside until Halvard is practically right next to him, eyes pointed at the ground and breath silent. Halvard doesn't move as Jóhannes jolts in surprise, but neither of them say anything. They barely look at each other.
“Ready?” Henrik asks to two people who neither reply or react to his question.
He smiles for all three of them.
Halvard drives, Henrik navigates (which is a useless position given Halvard knows the way to Berwald's by memory), Jóhannes sits behind them, luggage and his puffin's birdcage taking up the rest of the space. The fog lurches across the road in front of them, heavy and unnaturally thick. Later, there's light rain. The world is gray, like the color of Jóhannes' ashy hair.
The radio isn't on, no music is being played, but Henrik is singing to himself. Some of the songs he sings are ones that Jóhannes knows—he even has some of them on his phone—others are brand new. But Jóhannes is much more distracted by his brother—who normally does not speak much with his voice—who is singing too. Their timing isn't perfect, their harmonies not always matching quite right, sometimes one of them drops out because they don't know all the words, but they make it work. They both sing louder on the choruses and bring it down to nearly a whisper soon after.
Jóhannes is so captivated by this that it takes him ten minutes before he realizes that it's strange that he can hear them at all. There should be his own music drowning out their notes, but none is playing. His playlist ended a long time ago. He didn't notice. He makes an attempt to scroll through a long list of songs, trying to find something suitable, but he can't bring himself to press play.
Instead, Jóhannes digs through a large bag of snacks they're taking to Berwald's house and finds something he likes, opening it and munching absentmindedly as he stares out the window at the rain. He sighs, but it isn't the typical, fed up kind that he's known for.
Sitting here in the back seat, Jóhannes doesn't feel that he should be privy to be listening in on their singing. He's part of another world back here, his only company being his sleeping bird and the boxes piled up around him. He doesn't feel that he should belong, but he does. He doesn't want to feel that he might belong here, but he does. He keeps his headphones on, but he listens to the sounds that exist outside of them.
He feels warm, but he shivers and asks for the heat to be turned up.
Jóhannes looks at Halvard, and then at Henrik, and repeats this process of bouncing back between them nearly the entire way, dangerously close to raising his voice to join them.
Jóhannes has Halvard's eyebrows and many of Henrik's freckles. Sometimes that's a comfort.
Other times, it's not, and it makes him feel sick.
He only removes his headphones after they've arrived at Berwald's house, stepping out of the car and into a patch of sunshine between two summer storms.