Sindre almost cried with relief as he collapsed on his bed. He hated hell weeks. Three tests and two papers had all but eradicated his sleep schedule. To make matters worse, they still didn't have a replacement for Matthew at the shop, and while the others had stepped up, it still left Sindre with more work and more shifts. Thank god the underclassmen professors seemed to be on a different schedule. If his duties with Jared had increased as well, he might not have made it
( ... )
“It existed,” he answered, bracing one foot against the edge of the table and keeping his voice bright and friendly as he bent over Sindre slightly. “But that’s the trouble with a lot of shit these days, y’know. It exists
( ... )
For a moment, all Sindre could do was stare in shock. He had seen Søren do many crazy things, and had yelled at him for half of them, but never...never anything like this.
Darting forward, Sindre caught a hold of Søren's arm and pulled him away from the broken glass. A bit unsure where to even start on the scene before him, he decided to start with the obvious.
"Søren..." he paused,taking another second to make sure what was before his eyes was actually happening. "It's a table. It can't speak. It can't move. It can't do anything at all. You don't want to run into it? Don't try to walk through it. You have a problem with it existing, well, you shouldn't have bought it in the first place."
Setting himself between Søren and the table again, Sindre demanded, "Now why are you trying to kill your table."
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Darting forward, Sindre caught a hold of Søren's arm and pulled him away from the broken glass. A bit unsure where to even start on the scene before him, he decided to start with the obvious.
"Søren..." he paused,taking another second to make sure what was before his eyes was actually happening. "It's a table. It can't speak. It can't move. It can't do anything at all. You don't want to run into it? Don't try to walk through it. You have a problem with it existing, well, you shouldn't have bought it in the first place."
Setting himself between Søren and the table again, Sindre demanded, "Now why are you trying to kill your table."
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It came as an unmistakable order, low and monotone. Søren stared down at the Norwegian emotionlessly, eyes cold.
He’d said it, already knowing it wouldn’t be heeded. He pulled his arm away, hand balling into a fist by his side.
“Move.”
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