It's a piece of cake to bake a pretty...pie.
WHO: Sindre and Søren
WHEN: August 14th-15th
WHERE: The Charleston
WHAT: Bitch, it's time to fuckin' bake.
RATING: PG-13 for...UST? :Dc
( If the way is hazy... )
WHEN: August 14th-15th
WHERE: The Charleston
WHAT: Bitch, it's time to fuckin' bake.
RATING: PG-13 for...UST? :Dc
( If the way is hazy... )
Briefly, Sindre flashed back to high school, where Søren would drag Sindre to any sport he could and had no problem staying out at all hours--so long as they stayed within city limits. Sindre had always gone to the nearby forested area by himself and, later, with Berwald. "I suppose we can head up now," he conceded, and turned to grab his phone and keys off of the counter.
Only for his wrist to be grabbed and for him to be almost fully dragged out of the apartment. He had just enough time to call to call to Valdi to lock the door behind him before they were through the door to the stairwell. "You had better be truly worried about those multebær," he grumbled. Tugging the gripped arm back a bit, he was able to slow the pace being dragged to quick walk. He shot Søren a few worried glances as they climbed, but when the other chose not to break the silence, he decided to follow suit.
Finally reaching Søren's room, Sindre waited a bit impatiently as Søren fumbled with his keys. Moving to stand back against the opposite wall as he waited, the hand on his wrist arrested his movement and brought his attention back to Søren's grip. Sindre looked from his wrist to Søren's face and back. "You can let go of me now."
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But he felt immediately better as soon as The Puffin was out of side and tried to keep it out of mind that it was immediately below him, just one floor down and with only a thin floor and a short drop separating them--
He grimaced as he forced the door open. No need to get ridiculous and embarrass himself in front of Sindre; the Norwegian would rag on him endlessly for weeks. Or try to psychoanalyze the shit out of him as if everything had some deep meaning. He really hated Sindre's major sometimes. The guy was his best frie--...right. Anyway, a guy could only take so much of someone picking at his brain before he went to great lengths to avoid any sort of display that could maybe...maybe hint at something being Not Quite Right.
"--so! Thaaaat multebær!" he said brightly, once again seizing Sindre's wrist and dragging him inside, "Seriously don't get why it's so hard to find them in the States. I mean, I know they don't grow here, but if they're shippin' all their blueberries over from Sweden and raspberries from Finland, you'd figure they'd throw some multebær in with the lot. I mean, seriously. Scandinavians without multebær. It's like...tryin' t'keep...tryin' t'keep potatoes away from a German! S'just not healthy! S'practically murder when you think about it. They're tryin' to do us in and make us eat their damned pineapples or their damned pears or bananas or somethin'. Or apples. Ugh. Seriously dunno what's wrong with this country sometimes. Between this and their bullshit booze, s'enough to make me wanna axe something to bits."
He was babbling and he knew it. It was as much to kill the inevitable awkward silence that always occurred around this time as it was to distract him from the little feathered future-murderer below. And it was fucking embarrassing, because he knew he was going to be called on it.
"...aaaaaanyway," he said slowly as the silence dragged on again, "...m'headin' to the kitchen. Come keep me company, ja?"
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Of course he didn't.
Sindre yanked his arm free, rubbing at the soreness in his wrist and joints. He had said that he would come over; Søren didn't need to keep pulling him around. "I can find my way into your kitchen without being dragged," he said dryly, "your apartment isn't that complicated".
Proving that indeed he could, Sindre went to lounge against the counter in the kitchen. Søren's babble had almost been amusing in that it so poorly hid his discomfort with the puffin. Sindre decided to be somewhat nice and address his questions before getting into that. "Well, blueberries are native to North America. That's sure to account for the popularity. And if raspberries aren't, they're an incredibly invasive species. I know they currently grow all over. People like what's familiar."
He fell quiet as Søren bustled about the kitchen, setting everything up. He wanted to make sure the berries would come to no harm. Once Søren had settled down into the actual preparation, however, Sindre asked, "Is your fear of just puffins? Or of birds in general?" He grinned a little to himself. "Saw Hitchcock one too many times?"
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"Wh-what?" he stuttered, spinning to stare at Sindre in bewilderment, "M'not afraid of goddamned birds."
And he wasn't. Provided that they were Outside as opposed to Inside and kept a good 3 meters from him at any given time, he and birds got along just peachy.
But something about seeing what was normally classified as "Not Safe For The Inside Of Your House" animal flitting around Sindre's apartment was deeply unsettling, as if the karmic balance of the universe was about to shift on its side, spewing feathers and bird shit all over everyone and giving off a general air of Shit Just Got Real.
But perhaps he was just being ridiculous. But perhaps he knew Mother Nature better than his family liked to give him credit for; for as little as he liked Her, he at least knew She was a HUGE BITCH.
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"So you're just afraid of puffins, then," he commented, still watching Søren's action. "An oddly specific phobia, but I'm sure there's stranger." There it was, the slight wince of pain as he moved a bit too fast. "Humans are entirely too good at developing them."
Stepping forward as he spoke, he came up directly behind Søren. He ran his fingers lightly along Søren's back. "How's everything healing up from your fall?"
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