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NOTE: This is just me experimenting with the boys of Sigur Ros.
Jónsi stretched both long arms above his head. His shoulders ached; the curve of his back flamed temporarily in pain. Never again, he vowed. Never again would he sit crouched over his bow and guitar for so long. No matter how it plagued him.
"Never again," he mumbled in English.
He tilted his head back and listened to the silence in the studio. Everyone else had gone into town for some reason or other. Jónsi was alone, if only for a little while longer. He had no idea how long he had been locked in here, striving for the perfect notes.
Jónsi still hadn't found that pitch, the perfect shiver of sound, the one Kjartan had played that night -
Jónsi made a small sound of surprise at the direction his thoughts were exuberantly leading themselves.
Kjartan's torso was speckled with sweat - Goggi had cranked the heat up oppressively high in an attempt to beat the frigid winter chill that sneaked in through loose windowpanes and underneath doors, so Jónsi and Kjartan had shed their heavy shirts and stood by an open window. Kjartan was running a bow, a slimmer one than Jónsi's own, over his guitar. The amp was shoved into the dark corner beneath the window, reflecting the soft wail of the guitar.
Jónsi watched Kjartan's deft, lovely hands work the frets and the stiff shaft of his bow. He was, by far, much less experienced than Jónsi himself but he was able to coax equally beautiful sounds from his guitar.
Kjartan's eyelashes fluttered, catching the icy moonlight, and Jónsi's eyes locked with his. The bow stilled, the sound stopped, and a cold wind drifted through the open window.
Kjartan and Jónsi watched each other a moment longer. It was almost silent, and over the wind outside Jónsi could hear Kjartan's breathing and the thick buzz emanating from the amp.
Jónsi saw the delicate muscles in Kjartan's bare shoulder flex and cord as he lifted the bow to his guitar and took a long, sensuous downward stroke. A quiet keening whine, pathetic and sorrowful and heartbreaking, emerged from the amp. Jónsi suddenly ached to fall against Kjartan and trace every line of his body with his fingertips.
Kjartan shifted the bow against the strings of his guitar and the whine morphed into a moan. Jónsi's own breathy exclamation followed it.
"It's beautiful."
Kjartan knew exactly what he was doing to Jónsi, how the gorgeous lush sounds he was creating were making Jónsi's head spin, and he was milking it for all it was worth. Jónsi's knees went weak; he clutched at the nape of his own neck and inhaled desperately. This was what Jónsi lived for - moments like this, where the utter beauty inspired by a pliable instrument held intimately against Kjartan's body made the entire struggle worthwhile. Jónsi would travel to the ends of the earth for the sounds of mournful radiance that Kjartan was creating.
He leaned against the window, his face out into the bitter cold, and took in lungful after lungful of frigid air to make his head stop spinning.
Jónsi heard a soft clatter as Kjartan balanced his guitar against the wall and lay the bow next to it. He heard the tinny buzz die away as Kjartan switched off the amp. Then he felt the thick heat of Kjartan's body next to his, their shoulders nearly touching.
With an amused tilt to his voice, Kjartan murmured, "Are you alright?"
Jónsi could only nod helplessly. He was telling the truth, though: he was alright. He was perfectly fine, he was wonderful, he was high.
Kjartan leaned over on the windowsill. His warm cheek rested against the curve of Jónsi's shoulder, like a kitten seeking attention. "Are you cold?"
Feeling bold and cheeky, Jónsi turned and pressed his lips to Kjartan's temple for a long instant. "No," he whispered into the wisps of Kjartan's hair. "I'm fine."
Jónsi was dumped roughly back into the present as the memory ground to a halt: disturbing his and Kjartan's tranquility, Orri had pushed open the door, letting in yellow lamplight and new heat from the living room. Kjartan and Jónsi jumped apart so abruptly that Kjartan knocked his head on the windowsill.
So Jónsi put that flashback away and stared vacantly at his guitar and bow while the silence around him wore on.
He picked them both up again. He hummed a high note, softly, and pressed the record button on the battered four-track beside him and pulled the microphone close. Another high note slid out under his breath, and a few ambling, lazily strummed chords.
Softly, carefully, Jónsi drew his bow across the strings of his guitar. Effortless, effortless. He would let it come to him - he wouldn't strive for it - he wouldn't fight for perfection - he would use what he was given and no more.
And, just as effortlessly, that note - the trembling chord from the open window and the too-hot room and the stumbling, buzzing amp - came to him. It brought with it the shadowy memory of cold air on his skin, the crisp night sky, and the heat of Kjartan's body.
Jónsi sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and from the doorway he heard the same sound echoed back to him. He almost dropped his bow in surprise as he noticed the shadowed figure in the doorway. Jónsi knitted his brows - he hadn't remembered hearing anyone open or close the front door or the wheezing sound of Orri's car.
The figure flipped on the lights, as Jónsi had been safely cloaked in darkness, the way he liked it, and Jónsi wrinkled his nose in embarrassment. Kjartan watched him calmly, his thick dark hair nearly falling in his eyes.
"Beautiful," he murmured to Jónsi. "That was beautiful."
Jónsi shrugged modestly, tapping the wood of his bow against the floor slowly and rhythmically like an anxious child. Kjartan came to kneel before him, eyebrows furrowed in consternation.
"Don't ignore me," he growled good-naturedly. "I mean what I say when I say it."
Jónsi knew this to be true, and he couldn't hide the pleased smile that took over his lips.
"I see that!" Kjartan crowed, laughing.
I'm so afraid of how much I want to kiss you, Jónsi thought desperately. I'm so afraid of you.
Kjartan placed a friendly hand on Jónsi's cheek. His fingertips were still a bit cold from the outside. Jónsi imagined him in the car with Georg and Orri, his great deep breaths fogging up the window and clouding around him as he spoke in brass tones.
My mind is playing tricks on me, Jónsi decided. My mind is making that night by the window when everything was quiet and perfect into something devastating. Why did you treat me as if I was your lover, or your best friend? I'm neither, Kjarri; I'm nothing.
I can't fall in love with you. I won't. It will kill me.
Kjartan whispered: "What are you thinking about, Jónsi?"
Jónsi looked at Kjartan for a moment, soft compassion making his dark eyes wide. He leaned forward and kissed Kjartan so softly and chastely that it was no more than a press of lips, a warm sensation.
Kjartan stared at Jónsi in mild shock for a second, without saying anything. Jónsi lay his guitar on the floor and switched off the amp. Kjartan and he could hear Georg and Orri having a shouting match in the kitchen, but otherwise it was silent.
Jónsi slowly stood, his throat aching in anger and grief. He had put himself out for Kjartan and he had been rejected. Somehow he had expected something different. That was stupid. That was where he had gone wrong.
Kjartan grabbed Jónsi's arm hastily and pulled him close. Their bodies were flush for a moment, pieced together perfectly like an puzzle patiently waiting to be made whole. Kjartan kissed him again, just as timidly as the first kiss they shared but lasting a second longer.
They looked at each other for a moment, their breath tickling one another's lips. Some electric force brought them together again so they were kissing: long, bold, and sensuous. Jónsi's heart tripping in his chest as Kjartan's tongue brushed his bottom lip.
We can't choose who we love, Jónsi thought. We can't choose how we love. Our hearts lead us where they will. We're helpless against the tides - we just have to learn to swim with them.
Kjartan's dark eyes glittered in the lamplight. That perfect low wail that he had first heard from Kjartan's guitar only a few nights ago - the start of it all - echoed in Jónsi's ears. He could only whisper.
"Kjartan?"
"Mm."
"I love you."
ye merry olde end
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