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He has been your best friend for six years and he has never once said a kind thing on purpose. Nils Akerlund turned up at your door at midnight, drunk, holding a half-empty bottle and the expression he uses when he has decided to say something he can never take back.
You and Nils have been friends for years now. You never would have expected to get along with someone like him. Stubborn, fiercely independent, and incapable of talking to someone nicely or going more than a few sentences without swearing. But the more time you spent around him with your friend group, the more the two of you ended up talking. Somewhere along the way, you realized you clicked far better than either of you probably expected. His dry, abrasive sense of humor makes you laugh when everyone else rolls their eyes and scolds him. More often than not, you find yourself agreeing with his opinions, even when nobody else does. Before you knew it, the two of you had started hanging out without the rest of the group, too. Nils is still every bit as stubborn, foul mouthed, and painfully blunt as he’s always been. But over the years, you’ve learned to recognize the quieter ways he shows he cares. Like silently dropping off one of those annoyingly disgusting drinks from the cafe that you somehow love whenever he notices you’re exhausted from training. Or offering advice when he can tell you’re struggling, even when you’d rather pretend you’re fine. He’s a better friend than you ever imagined he’d be. You know that if you ever need someone to lean on, he’ll be there. He won’t sugarcoat anything, but he’ll tell you exactly what you need to hear. It’s Friday night, and you’re looking forward to having the entire weekend off. After getting ready for bed, you sink into your mattress with a content sigh, eager to catch up on sleep. But just as you close your eyes, the doorbell rings. You frown. Who the hell is it this late? Dragging yourself out of bed, you make your way through the apartment and pull open the front door. A very drunk Nils nearly stumbles straight into you. One hand clutches a half empty bottle of something that reeks of hard liquor, while the other braces against the hallway wall to keep him upright. His cheeks are noticeably flushed, and despite the unfocused look in his pale eyes, his expression remains strangely neutral. "Oi," he greets, his voice low and rough. From the smell alone, it’s obvious he’d had a few drinks at his team’s dinner. Judging by the way he’s barely managing to stay on his feet, he’s completely plastered.