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It’s dark by the time Henrik gets home, and his nostrils sting from the frosty air as he fumbles to open the front door. The lock, already rusty, is frozen stiff, and it takes several moments of jiggling before the key grinds into place, and he can step over the threshold into the warmth of his -
their
- home.
He flips on the light, illuminating the narrow hallway. Stellan’s trainers, the ones he wears when he’s not at work, are paired neatly by the wall, and Henrik slips off his own to join them, delighting in the domesticity of it. Two pairs of shoes by the door, two mugs on the coffee table, two music stands side by side in the lounge, all testimony to their life together.
He and Stellan have lived here for just over three months, and Henrik still can barely believe their luck. After five years together, of sharing flatmates in uni and beyond, of saving what little money they had towards their dream of one day living with one another, they had finally discovered this place. It doesn’t look like much - the one-bedroom ground floor maisonette of an old terrace - but it’s theirs, and it’s home, for just the two of them.
Henrik couldn’t be happier. After the uncertainty of life at the conservatory, of not knowing if his hard work and crippling debt would ever be worth it, he has a home, a job, a boyfriend he can see every day for the rest of his life - everything else is extra. All he needs is right here.
Stellan is performing tonight, so he won’t be home until late. The lounge still smells faintly of one of the pine-scented candles he must have lit earlier, while Henrik was still teaching. Henrik breathes it in and smiles, because it smells just like Stellan, cosy and familiar. He sets his violin case on the table, opens it up, and raises it to his neck.
Once, in freshman year, when they were not yet lovers, Stellan had confessed, after a few too many cocktails at happy hour, that he had always dreamed of being serenaded. Henrik had laughed, of course, then immediately began to sing; a wavering, off-key rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love, while Stellan turned progressively redder and slapped his arm, mortified.
“Shut up,” he had hissed. “Henrik, we’re in public!”
“You told me to.”
“No, I didn’t! You know that’s not what I meant. I meant a proper serenade, with real music, and - ugh, it’s stupid - I’d want him to love me. Like a proposal or something.”
“Aw,” Henrik had cooed, because it was kind of adorable, the way Stellan was scowling at the ground, all shy and embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t have my violin right now.”
“Thank god for that,” Stellan had said, and had never mentioned it since. But now, five years into their relationship, Henrik is beginning to think about these kinds of things - not deeply or desperately; he would be content to live with Stellan as boyfriends forever - but the idea is ever-present, nestled comfortably between his other thoughts.
They could, he thinks, if they wanted to. There’s nothing stopping them. It wouldn’t change their lives, really, apart from a ring and a promise and a declaration to the world: I love him, I love him, I love him.
It’s from this thought that Henrik’s composition was born. It isn’t written so much for Stellan as it is about him, all the emotion building in Henrik’s chest swelling out into music so he doesn’t combust from it, this overwhelming, overflowing love. He’s been practicing this piece since September, when, amongst the chaos of moving in, the first motifs had appeared in his mind. It isn’t a secret, exactly, but he has mostly been piecing it together when Stellan isn’t home; there’s something too vulnerable about Stellan hearing the roughest edges of his love.
Now, he lifts his violin and plays. The melody comes naturally to him. His technique isn’t perfect - not the way he had practiced his recitals in uni, over and over through sleepless nights until his fingers throbbed and he no longer felt real - but it doesn’t need to be, because he is playing only for himself and the empty room, and the thought of Stellan.
Henrik loses himself in the music, and only realises he is no longer alone when he lowers his bow and turns.
“I’ve never heard you play that piece before.” Stellan is stood in the doorway, still wearing his coat and favourite plaid scarf, his violin strapped to his back. His nose and cheeks are pink from the cold, his eyes reflecting the light of the lounge, and there are snowflakes on his eyelashes. He looks like home, and Henrik has never loved someone so completely in his entire life.
“I wrote it for you,” he says, and grins. “What d’you think?”
Stellan pauses, pressing his lips together in the way he does when he’s pretending not to smile. “Your fourth finger vibrato could use some work.”
“You asshole,” Henrik wants to say, laughing, but what actually comes out is - “Marry me.”
He freezes mid-breath when he realises what he has said. Stellan’s entire body stills and his face falls blank, then, slowly, he turns away and slips his violin case from his back, setting it on the cabinet. When he looks back, there is a single tear weaving down his cheek.
“Stellan - ”
“Henrik, yes.” Suddenly, Stellan is in his arms, the pale wool of his coat pressed to Henrik’s cheek, his breath warm and damp against his neck. “Always yes.”
Henrik’s breath releases in a gush of air, and he tightens his arms around him fiercely. The snowflakes on Stellan’s shoulders have melted into beads of ice-cold water, and he smells like the night air. He’s done this all wrong - he should have had a ring - he should have got down on one knee - he should have serenaded him, the way Stellan had drunkenly asked for all those years ago -
But now, with Stellan here in his arms, he doesn’t regret anything.
Gently, Henrik draws back, then begins to unwind the snow-damp scarf from Stellan’s neck, slipping his coat down his shoulders. Stellan looks up at him with pink cheeks and glistening eyes, a wide smile breaking across his face. “Undressing me already?”
Henrik laughs, leaning in so their foreheads touch. “Slow down, just wait. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ve done nothing but wait. Kiss me now.”
So, with Stellan’s hand curled into his sweater, right above where his heart beats with joy, Henrik does.