Dimethylmercury. A highly toxic substance that would quietly seep into the skin and, after months, cause its most unfortunate host to expire.

Midnight barks of neighborhood dogs infrequently pierced this tainted silence. The twilight's solace was betrayed the heinous deed committed under the lights of the few stars in the sky, though it was not as if any one person knew of it, save for one person lurking in a house that he did not own. A man of pale complexion had paid another of chilled temperature a short visit, stalking about the quarters, small creaks of the floorboards following him beneath his shoes. Any other man would scream, shout, or be quite generally mortified by the sight before him, but this man was not such a one.

The owner of this lavish home and its furnishings, paid for by black money, but so arrogant he thought not to acquire some form of security, laid in quiet on the floor. His limbs were cast about to wherever they fell with him earlier, and his eyes are open, but cold and lifeless as they stared up at the ceiling. To the other alive, well, and breathing man, it is such a shame that this unfortunate fellow's suit is wasted on himself, a man of power in crime, reduced to what he was now: a corpse.

The pale man, cloaked in a dark bodysuit to hide himself in the shadows from the uninvited leer of unassuming people, stooped over the body—no, how generous of him, to use words that implied it was somebody else's—his victim. Under a cotton mask to match his suit, the man sneered at the other's chest that no longer heaved in panic at his own declining state of being. For further examination, he knelt, extending a gloved hand to cup his chin to turn his face, eyes running over every detail, from the horrendous stubble that would never again be shaved to the man's hair, slicked done in such a pretentious fashion and sealed with gel. Despite his disgusting appearance, the man still found such beauty in his victim's death.

He shifted his hand away from the chin, running it down the throat that no longer demonstrated the warmth of a heartbeat to the silk tie clutching the undersides of his fine shirt, and further down to the buttons of his suit jacket. The man could picture this one now, rotting under the dirt, flesh becoming nothing more than the meal of maggots... it brought such unadulterated glee to him.

"Oh, you poor fool of a man... to even conceive the idea that you would always be on top of everybody else. But look at you, now..." he hummed in a low tone. The man clenched his teeth, and jerked his hand up to grip the flesh of the body's vile neck underneath the chin.

"Nothing but a weak man, who fell to just a touch of your own damned mercury!" he hissed, saying nothing more. He released the other man's neck and returned to his feet, taking this last moment to feel the rush of the moment surging within, heart throbbing excitedly at the sheer thrill of having ended a worthless life at last.

Nils Thomassen would have spat on him if it wouldn't have given him away to the forensics when they arrived. Einar Fredriksen, a common gangster, would join another of his deceased eight to never disturb the streets of Oslo again.

Days like these were some of Hans' favorite. Even with the ice frosting the road with bits of salt sprinkled over it by the city, or dirty snow lying about the corners of sidewalks and against walls, for the sun was awake and peeking through the clouds to brighten his day. It was true that he mostly preferred cloudless skies, but he was grateful for any time the sun would show its face in the usually drab skies. It was only too bad that the freezing air and snow wouldn't be gone until April. The worst of it, probably not even due to come until next month in February. Hans sighed at his cheerful thoughts becoming dreary ones, but it wasn't like he had anything else to think about, waiting for the train as his passage to work. This was exactly why he loathed rising from the comfort of his bed so early. It'd be a great idea, he'd assure himself, to get a good window seat to see the outside from.

The Dane's thought was lost to a void, interrupted by the hum of the metro train to whisk Hans away from the bore of the barren station platform, stepping inside once the doors opened the way to temporary shelter from the cold and the smell of coffee from other commuters. He quietly found a little piece of sanctuary for himself by a window, as he hoped, while the last of the few other commuters on the platform stepped aboard and the doors shut behind them, the train lurching forward to its next destination.

Hans lost himself in his mind again as the trees and buildings whizzed by, buildings dominating the former as it drew nearer to the city center. Even if it was beautiful to him, Hans had found his life turning evermore boorish despite his attempts to keep it lively, clear in his often joyful approach to everything or even something trivial like keeping his wild hair. His work as an interior designer at least kept it different enough, every client wanting something new, but sometimes it was just difficult working with the more particular ones. At least, he consoled himself, today wouldn't be like that.

The train soon descended to the underground, taking the sky and scenes away from Hans' sight, much to his disappointment. The train buzzed for a stop and opened its doors, and along with the crowd, he followed, out to his station. Climbing the stairs and resurfacing to the freezing air, he let out a heavy sigh, with the very breath frosting over into fog before his eyes. Hans turned the corner of the sidewalk and passed people he would never remember later on his way to the theatre.

Here, now, was a place he could be his own sort of creative, a goal in mind, but a picture to portray and paint with his very own two hands. He had found a hobby in coming and volunteering to help create the backdrops that gave life to a performance, and that was something he could keep a bit of pride for in his life.

He passed a woman at the counter, waving quickly and nonchalantly, and she returned the friendly gesture with a smile of welcome. Hans strode on beyond the lobby doors, but almost pitched forward to fall when he stopped himself quite suddenly at the sight of a tall, Swedish man with what he considered to be ghastly glasses lingering in the corner by a row of chairs.

"Hey!" Hans cheered at him with a toothy grin, the lofty man taking his eyes away from the floor to meet his, "Berwald! Long time, no see!"

"I should've expected ya to consider a week a 'long time'." Berwald sighed exasperatingly, lifting himself from a lean on the wall only to have Hans practically skip over and then give him a friendly slap on the back.

"Ah, man," he pouted, "don't look too happy to see me, now." Hans snorted at his own sarcasm, and while the Swede appreciated Hans' friendship, he found some things about him worthy of rolling his eyes at, like his somewhat pretentious need to laugh at his own jokes. Berwald pushed his oblong glasses back to their perch on the bridge of his nose after Hans had almost knocked them off with that rough greeting.

Hans had finished with his chortling, and then ran his fingers through the hair on the back of his head, imposing a rather practical question: "What're you doing here anyways? I never figured you were the drama type."

"Well I expected t'see ya here eventually. Yer perfect for theatre, always gettin' in everybody's business," Berwald grunted, poking at the Danish man in all good fun, even if his sense of humor is buried miles-deep in the dirt of seriousness.

"W-what?" Hans stammered, the joke a bit surprising. "Was that a... joke? A joke, right? Your humor needs... work. Yeah, duh, I'm here! Who d'you think helps make some of the masterful backgrounds that make these productions so great?" He waved his hand as if to downplay his supposed greatness. "But, hey, I asked you a question first!"

"Lighting. I do some'a that. S'pose I just came to see what everyone does before my work comes in." Berwald shrugged, though slightly intrigued that he would find that out about Hans.

"For the year I've been doin' this, I never knew that. Huh! I guess we just never talked about it over coffee. Hey, that reminds me..." Hans trailed off, briefly losing his topic, but remembering it shortly after, face lighting up. "Ah! Right! How's your little boyfriend Tino doing?" he asked teasingly, puckering his lips to make it sound even more ridiculous of a question.

Berwald merely glared at him, but couldn't keep it up, covering his face with a hand in slight embarrassment. "...He's been cute. As always."

Hans almost laughed at how flustered Berwald seemed. The Dane found it somewhat hilarious that Berwald adored him so. "Well, good! It's too bad we never actually meet that often. But I guess being a cop makes that Finn a busy man."

Berwald shook his head in a vague attempt to regain his composure and push the thoughts of his lover out of his mind. "Ja, tha's how it is. But it'd be better that way. Last time we were all t'gether, Tino flipped you ever th' table when ya thought you could beat 'im at arm wrestling."

"Aw, come on, you're exaggerating...!" Hans protested.

"I'm not. Ya went right over." Berwald replied coolly.

"Are too!"

"Am not."

"Are! Too!"

"Am. Not."

Hans fumed at how stubborn the Swede could be. "You're a meeeeean friend, y-y'know that...?!" He whined, though leaning against Berwald to show his lightness about the issue.

"Ja, ja, I know." Berwald shrugged him off, brow furrowed at how heavy Hans is, or at least at how his thick winter jacket and scarf are. "Don'tcha have somethin' to be painting?"

Hans perked up at that, eyes widening in the midst of his recollection of duty. "Ah! Right! I'll talk to ya later, then! See ya!" He spat out hurriedly, waving vigorously as he turned on a heel to rush for the stage down the central aisle whilst flinging away his scarf and coat to land on a seat. Berwald raised a hand, waving with substantially less energy and a raised brow.