My friends say I should act my age
Who: Sindre and Søren (and maybe babysitter!Feliks)
When: Wednesday morning to Thursday morning.
Where: Søren's apartment
What: Søren comes to believe in magic.
( What's my age again? )
When: Wednesday morning to Thursday morning.
Where: Søren's apartment
What: Søren comes to believe in magic.
( What's my age again? )
...fantastic.
He peered down at the carton slowly dribbling ice cream out on the linoleum like some weird bleed-out and then at the whimpering child atop the counter.
He sighed again and reached out to turn on the hot tap. He let it run for a few moments before running a paper towel underneath the warm stream and then clamping it over the child's nose with a patient expression.
"Just start breathin' in slow, okej?" he instructed the boy.
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Warmth spread out from his nose and towards the cold, and Sindre let out a small, relieved noise. He stared up at Mr. Søren with wide eyes as he sucked in a shuddery breath. He didn't know anything could help when his head got really cold!
He kept breathing as slowly as he could, clutching to Mr. Søren's shirt all the while. As the pain went away and he calmed down, Sindre quickly noticed a new problem.
"Mr. Søren? I hafta go to the bathroom."
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Child Abuse Lawsuit.
"You can't go by yourse--no, probably not." The kid (so-called Sindre, whatever the hell that was all about) already had a track record from the past...half hour. He sighed in abject misery, taking "Sindre" by the (grubby and sticky and covered in ice cream, ugh) hand and leading him towards the bathroom.
...lovely day to get completely fucked over.
He stared at the porcelain throne and then at the child, gaze switching between the two every few seconds and reluctance in every movement.
He did not know how to...to children.
"S-so, uh..." he began intelligently, eyes darting over every surface in the bathroom anxiously, "You can just, uh...get to it, ja?"
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But.
But if he got hurt...Mr. Søren might get in trouble. He had one babysitter that he cut his chin with, and mamma and pappa had been so mad. Sindre had thought it cool--the doctor's had to sew his face! But he never saw her again.
And he liked Mr. Søren. He didn't wanta get him in trouble.
Sindre lifted his arms and bounced on his toes. When Mr. Søren just looked at him, he added, "Up! Up! U--"
He paused as his hand went up to his head. Something was hitting him, and he didn't like it. Almost pouting, he reached up and pulled a thing out of his hair. He turned it around, looking at it. He had a cross in his hair! That was weird. But it looked kinda like Auntie's cross, so that was alright.
Cross in hand, he resumed his demand to be lifted. Hands up, bouncing, he said, "Up!"
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Søren took a moment to examine the small face. It was covered with dried ice cream residue and other miscellaneous debris of childish antics.
Fantastiske.
"You'll be needin' a bath or somethin'," Søren said, turning abruptly to turn on the bath tub's tap. After a moment of indecision, he turned the shower on. It was probably quicker and less likely to cause a mess of puddles on the bathroom floor.
"Hurry up, lige."
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The "b" word.
Looking up in horror, he saw Mr. Søren start to turn on the water. But...but...it was morning! He never had to clean up in the morning. And Mr. Søren had seemed really nice...why was he being mean now?
Sliding off the toilet, he smiled pleasantly at Mr. Søren when he turned to check on him, then made a dash for the closed door. If he could just get out then he could hide again and then he wouldn't have to take an icky bath and Mr. Søren wouldn't have to stop being the best person ever. He was almost at the handle and it was a little too high but he was gonna hafta try--
Jump one. Miss.
Jump two. Miss.
Jump thre-eeeeeeeee
The ground was falling away behind him and for one second Sindre thought he had figured out flying. Mr. Søren would never catch him now!
And then he registered the arm wrapped around his waist. Awwwww...
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His second was ‘Damn, he’s heavier than he looks. No more ice cream for breakfast.’
His third was less words but more like fuzzy static and the hot jagged edge of shock when he realized he had an armful of wet and denuded Sindre sprawled on him.
O-on him.
On him and moving in the most mesmerizing and fascinating ways-STOP.
“…h-hej…” he greeted Sindre weakly.
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He shot up, catching himself against the wall of the shower to stop himself from slipping. Stumbling out, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it hastily around his waist. After taking a few moments to get-to try and get himself back under control, he hesitantly turned back, careful not to look...anywhere.
Okay. He was naked. And wet. In Søren's shower. With Søren in the same state. With no memory of how they ended up like...that. "What-What am I..." Sindre cleared his throat and tried again. "Why am I naked in your bathroom?"
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"U-um...y-you wanna tell me...w-why you were all shrunk for...God knows how long? 'Cause that I would really...really like to know."
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Søren saying odd things wasn't the issue here. The issue was the fact that he was naked in Søren's shower with them laying...like they were and he had no memory of how he got here or why that would have happened and--
"What am I doing here?" If he focused on the asking, then maybe there would be a completely logical answer and he wouldn't have to think of any of the other ways he could end up here in this state and--
He really needed something in the room to focus on other than Søren still wet and in the shower and--
"Get out before you get sick," Sindre stated, turning to grab Søren a towel so he would have something else to do. But that wasn't enough to stop a second "What am I doing here?" slip out.
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He was not getting hysterical. He was not getting hysterical.
The towel landed on his head, and for one blessed moment the world was dark and scented with familiar laundry detergent and the rough touch terrycloth brushing his skin.
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--And now he was contemplating Søren's dick and that's something he shouldn't ever be doing and he certain had enough observed evidence to know that Søren could--
This is your best friend, he desperately reminded himself. You called him brother, once. Stop this. You have to.
Rubbing at his eyes, blocking out the entire sight, Sindre wrenched his thoughts to Søren's near-hysterical rambling. Three-foot? Four years old? That didn't make any sense.
Unless one couldn't catch the lingering trace of magic in the room.
Immediately lifting his head out of his hands, Sindre stared upwards and reached a hand out towards it. Some sort of working had just been undone, and it had the ( ... )
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It could be worse.
He could be making a mad dash for the balcony, screaming about the unfairness and eccentricities of life before throwing himself over the side.
...but that just sounded messy and he wasn't drunk enough for that yet.
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