Life hadn't always been a dance on roses - far from it. More like a crawl through thorns and gravel in Erik's case.

Erik dried his hair with his towel before running a brush through it – smoothing it all down with his hands afterwards.

They were frightfully similar, both in terms of looks and personality (although Erik couldn't really vouch for the first part) and almost everyone they met would repeat this over and over and over again.

When he was younger Erik thought he'd get to keep Halldór around him forever. His little brother was all his after all.
And for several years that had been true.

Halldór had even picked up music, and eagerly played and practiced alongside Erik.

That had been a good time too.
However; as much as he had wished it – it didn't last forever.

"That's a nice song," Halldór had whispered as Erik put his violin down. "It's happier than the last one," he added and hummed.

"Mhm. It's nice isn't it?" Erik said and smiled softly, running his fingers over the strings and slowly plucking at them, re-tuning it till it sounded right once more. "We should play together next time," he suggested.
"Mom tells me you've progressed a lot with the cello."

"Yeah," Halldór replied hesitantly and Erik wondered what had made his brother so oddly shy.

"Something wrong?" Erik asked as he placed the violin back in it's case – running his fingers over the red felt to ensure everything was in it's rightful place.

"No.. just that..." Halldór trailed off, swallowing nervously as he saw the worry in Erik's expression.

"What?" Erik asked, slowly making his way over to his brother. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing bad. Honestly," Halldór said hurriedly, but it did nothing to ease Erik's frown.

"Halldór..." Erik said softly and Halldór was certain his heart was about to seize up. "Please, tell me what's wrong?"

"I'm going to study art," Halldór said hurriedly and closed his eyes – unable to look at his brother.

Erik froze – unable to move anywhere, the darkness around him suddenly felt a lot darker and lonelier. Colder.
It seemed to swallow him up.

"Art?" he asked after a while, voice weak.

"Yeah. I've applied to a college and everything. Mom said I could if that's what I wanted to do..."

"I...I see," Erik stammered, slowly threading his fingers through his own hair.

"I love music! I really do!" Halldór said, standing up and grasping his brother's hand firmly. "Erik, please... I just really want to do this..."

"Heh, of course. You should do what makes you happy," Erik uttered and flashed him a smile he hoped was convincing enough, but Halldór didn't bite.

"Erik, I'm not going to stop playing with you... I love music, I really do..."

"You're not obliged to stick to my hobbies," Erik smiled and squeezed Halldór's hand in return. "I'm sure you're already a very talented artist. If mom said so then it must be true..."

"Thank you," Halldór whispered and hugged Erik tightly.

"You're welcome," Erik replied softly, hoping Halldór wouldn't notice his voice breaking.

Art.
Art!

The word burned itself inside Erik's heart, twisting and cutting deeper and deeper until Erik wanted nothing more than to set every picture he could get his hands on on fire.

How could Halldór choose art?
Out of all the things he could have decided to pursue; his brother had decided to take the route down a path where Erik was not just useless but also utterly incapable of appreciating.

He tried to let the thoughts go. Tried to ignore the nagging feeling of being left behind.
Art was so much he told himself. Art brought a lot of people joy – so they said didn't they?
Erik tried again and again to be positive.

Yet it didn't work.

Pictures on walls were useless to him – and every time Halldór came home now smelling of paint Erik felt more and more contempt towards artwork he couldn't see.

He shut himself off as much as he could, left everyone to do their thing as he relentless practiced.

Every tune had to be perfect.
He listened to records over and over again until he could play the piece with no sheet music – some he played so often he could play it backwards if he so wanted.

It wasn't enough to be good, Erik had to be perfect.

His fingers bleed most evenings, but he soldiered on.
Music was all he had left in his dark world – the only thing that could create colours in his mind.

"Please come to the school exhibition," Halldór said one evening, "It's my first one..." he added shyly.

"I've got practice..." Erik replied a little too bitterly.

"But I want you there," Halldór tried, but Erik remained steadfast.

"What's a blind guy to do at a gallery? Sniff the fucking paint?" he hissed.

"N-No..." Halldór stammered.

"Then you don't need me there," Erik said and stood up, accidentally knocking his leg into the coffee table. "Fuck," he hissed.

"Erik, please don't leave. Let me explain," Halldór tried to reach for Erik's hand, but he moved out of reach.

"You don't need to explain anything," Erik bit back and marched out the living room.

Halldór heard him stumble up the stairs before his bedroom door slammed shut and the whole house fell into silence.

He didn't know what to do, nor who to turn to now that his brother seemed to be drifting even further away for each passing day – but the slow and sorrowful wails of Erik's violin cut into him deeply.
This wasn't what he'd imagined would happen – Halldór had hoped Erik would support him.
Hoped he'd actually join him in the school exhibition.

Because he wanted him there.
He wanted no one else more than Erik to stand by his side when the doors opened.

He wanted Erik to see...

Halldór bit back tears as he tried to think of a solution.

Their mother had always said they were both two sides of the same coin – stubborn and loyal.
However; Halldór's loyalty to his brother was wavering and his stubbornness increasing.

"Erik," he said a week later, in a much harsher tone than he'd ever mustered before, making his brother almost drop his violin.

"What?" Erik replied coolly, trying to brushing off his surprise by not even turning to face Halldór as he spoke.

"You're going," Halldór said sternly, trying to stand as tall as he could even if it made no difference to Erik.

"Going where?" Erik replied with a frown, turning away from Halldór.

"The gallery," Halldór said.

"No I'm not. Mom said it's not opening until tomorrow and I've got plans then,"

"I know. We're going now," Halldór said sternly and grabbed Erik's wrist.

"What?!" Erik looked confused before his confusion turned into anger. "Let go of me," he hissed.

"No,"

"You can't force me," Erik almost yelled at him.

"I can," Halldór said bitterly. "You either come with me right now or I will ensure you never find anything in your room ever again."

"Are you blackmailing me?" Erik's eyes went wide and it pained Halldór to no end to see his brother's eyes look so devoid of life.

"Yes," he replied, hoping Erik wouldn't see through his lies. "And if that doesn't change your mind, you can kiss your violin goodbye too."

"You wouldn't dare," Erik whispered, voice breaking.

"Wanna bet?" Halldór said coolly and ripped the instrument from Erik's hand.

"No," Erik gasped, and Halldór knew there was no going back now.

"Yes," he replied. "You're coming or your violin takes a trip out the window."

Erik bit his lip, hands shaking as his eyes darted back and forth as he was desperately searching in the darkness for a way out of this nightmare.

Halldór knew he was scared – he knew blackmailing his brother was wrong.
But if he was stubborn, then Erik was impossibly so.

And Halldór needed Erik to go to the exhibition.

It wasn't ground breaking art. It was a simple school exhibition – final one before he'd start university.
But Halldór wanted and needed Erik to be there.
And if it meant forcing him by gunpoint to go, then so be it.
He'd made up his mind and now there was no going back.

Erik was going.

"Fine," Erik whispered in defeat. "I'll go."

"Good," Halldór said, relieved he didn't have to act on either threat he'd made. He gently placed the violin back in it's case for Erik before taking his brother by the hand.
"Come," he added and pulled Erik slowly towards the door.

Erik didn't speak on their way, he shuffled along after Halldór – focusing mostly on walking without tripping.

The school was quiet and almost entirely abandoned save for a few after school sports clubs still playing matches against one another on the fields.
Halldór paused briefly to find the key to the building he'd begged his art teacher to borrow for just one night.

He could turn on the lights, but it made no real difference to Erik – so Halldór continued up towards the gallery space in the dim light of the corridors and stairs.

His heart was pounding faster and faster and he struggled to unlock the gallery door – his hands shaking too hard. This all had to be worth it or Erik and him would likely never speak again. Halldór didn't think he could stomach that – the past few weeks had been hellish enough.

"And?" Erik said dryly as the door finally swung open and Halldór guided him inside.
"Lovely place. Just as dark as everywhere else," he added with a sneer.

"Here..." Halldór said, ignoring his brother's cynicism and guided Erik over to one of his paintings. "Put your hand here."

"My hand?" Erik looked puzzled.

"Just do it," Halldór replied sternly, placing Erik's hand in the center of the painting.

Erik froze as he palm came in contact with the rough texture on the canvas.
"What on earth?" he heard him whisper.

"Feel it," Halldór said softly, guiding his brother's other hand up to the painting. "You're supposed to touch it."

"But," Erik began, quickly cutting himself off as his fingers followed the grooves in the thick paint – dragging over rough sand and smooth paint, all mixed into a thick paste that shaped the picture into more than just a flat painting.

Erik ran his hands around the edges, worked his way from the bottom of the painting to the very top.

"Can you see what it is?" Halldór asked after Erik had touched every last inch of the painting.

"A violin?" Erik whispered, a hint of uncertainly.

"Yeah," Halldór replied, breathing out in relief.

"It.. feels like mine," Erik continue, placing his hand back on the painting.

"It is yours..." Halldór said, daring to look at his brother's expression.

He appeared to stare at the artwork – desperately trying to find a way to see what was in front of him. Halldór bit his lip before carefully placing his on hand over Erik's.

"I'm so sorry," Erik whispered, tears streaming down his face.

"No," Halldór whispered in return, hugging his brother tightly – a gesture that made Erik jump slightly before relaxing. "I... I didn't mean to exclude you. I never meant for that..."
Halldór sniffled, trying hard to stop his own tears from falling.

Neither of them knew how long they remained in the gallery before Halldór suggested Erik 'look' at the other ones.
He guided him from picture to picture, letting Erik explore them one by one – taking guesses as to what they were.

"The sea..." Erik said as he reached the last one, fingers tracing the outlines of waves.

"See," Halldór laughed. "You can look at art."

"Only your art," Erik reminded him and tried to swat his arm – accidentally hitting the back of his head instead.

"What other art do you need?" Halldór laughed as he rubbed his head.

"Fair point," Erik chuckled, fumbling till he found Halldór's sleeve.

"Something wrong?" Halldór whispered.

"No..." Erik replied quietly, tugging at his brothers sleeve a little. "I just..." he trailed off as Halldór took his hand.
"Thank you," Erik whispered.

"You're welcome," Halldór said and smiled.

Erik spent the next week trying to apologise in some way – unsure of what to do.

In the end their mother suggested he buy Halldór some paint, and Erik did so, even if half the joy from doing so was due to the lady behind the counter who tried hard not to ask him why a blind guy needed art supplies.
He heard her whisper to her colleague as he ran his fingers over the numerous brushes – trying to find one he felt would be suitable as a gift.

"Do you need help?" she asked him.

"Mhm," Erik nodded. "I need some shades of blue,"

"What type of blue?"

"Some deep and some light," Erik said. "Some like the sea and some like the sky,"

"Ah," the woman said and Erik could hear her shuffling back and forth for a while.
"These okay?" she asked and Erik tried not to roll his eyes.

"You tell me," he replied.

"Oh, yes. Of course. I'm so sorry," she uttered hurriedly. "I think these are very nice myself."

"Then they should be fine," Erik shrugged.
He tapped his fingers against the counter as she placed the paints and brushes in a bag for him – rather pleased when he even got a discount.
At least he hoped it was – he'd get his mother to check the receipt and price tags when he got home.

"You...you brought me paints?" Halldór uttered in disbelief.

"Yeah. Sorry if the colours are wrong. I'm not sure what the lady actuality gave me, but I did ask for blue hues..."

"They are blue," Halldór laughed.

"Good," Erik smiled.

Blue.
Blue like the ocean and blue like the sky – different shades but still blue. So people said.

Erik paused in front of his wardrobe, running his fingers over the labels till he found what he wanted. An over sized, worn and old t-shirt – covered in paint stains no amount of washing would remove.
It was blue.
Or had been.

He'd used it when Halldór had wanted to try out different techniques for painting – one that involved splashing paint randomly over a canvas and then trying to paint things out from the shapes it created – and what better way to get random splashes of colour than to get your blind brother do to it for you?

Erik had covered himself and the floor in paint in the process, but Halldór loved the result and that was what mattered the most.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and made his way to the kitchen. Preben had put things back in their rightful place and that made him happy.
Happy that Preben remembered that he needed those old routines. Happy that Preben sometimes stumbled and forgot, but ultimately still made every effort to understand and help.

Well, at least he was getting better at it.
Erik sighed a little and wondered if he should hit Preben over the head with his cane once more just to see what he'd do this time.

Erik didn't get much more time consider the possibilities, because he heard the keys in the lock.

"I'm back!" he heard Preben shout from the doorway as he kicked off his shoes.
"Oh you're awake!" Preben laughed as he entered the kitchen and spotted Erik.

"Yes..." Erik replied, instinctively turning towards him to hear his voice better.

"Good," Preben grinned and leaned in to kiss Erik's temple, placing the groceries down before giving him a warm hug. "Good morning to you once more."

"Good morning..." Erik said quietly, smiling happily in return.

"Take a seat, I'll make us breakfast."

"Okay..." Erik hesitated for a moment, but ultimately let himself be let to the little kitchen table.

This was nice.
Really nice he thought as he sat there sipping coffee and listening to Preben sign as he puttered about the kitchen, occasionally pausing to ask Erik where he kept certain utensils.

This, Erik decided, he could get very used to.

Preben's soft humming and fondness of brushing his hands over Erik's every time he passed him was simply bliss – he could even forgive Preben for forgetting to put chairs back in their rightful place.

He was trying, and trying his best, and Erik appreciated that beyond words Preben did what he could to make them both comfortable.

He wouldn't ask for the world, because that was unobtainable.
But a somewhat brash, loud and energetic man under his roof? A man who seemed to not mind his flaws and imperfections – not ignoring them, but simply accepting them.

Yeah, that was more than enough for Erik to consider himself content.