The next morning, Berwald awoke early. Tino was fast asleep, peaceful and still in his comforting grasp, so the Swede eased his arm from beneath the small man and placed a light kiss on his forehead before sneaking downstairs.
The living room was a mess; the couch cushions lay across the floor in the most inconvenient of places, one soaked with some vile unknown substance. A vase had been smashed, with the shards embedded in the carpet. Beside the couch was a series of clear glass fragments and a peculiar stain on the carpet. There was a suspicious scent that filled the room and encouraged Berwald to hold his breath until he passed through to the kitchen. He ignored Lars, who was laying upside down on the couch snoring, and the Dutch man slumped up against a wall and muttering in his sleep.
He grabbed the air-freshener spray, a broom and a wet towel and began to tidy up the living room. Running back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, he put on breakfast for himself and