I come bearing cinnamon buns and confusion
Who: Kai and Willem
When: Sunday Evening, March 20th
Where: Willem's apartment
What: The Dutchman and the pint-sized Dane finally meet, though very much at a whim.
It was a name he had heard in his earlier years when Søren went off to school or would return home on trips. It was a name that constantly frequented his emails with his older cousin before Kai moved to America. It was a name that he had heard off and on in conversations between Sindre and Søren, around Liberty, ever so often in eavesdropped conversation. It was a name that he now heard frequently, though replaced with angered curses rather than happier thoughts or fond memories. It was a name he knew well, but didn't have the vaguest idea of a face, a voice, a goddamn clue to place with it.
But he at least seemed to know something about what was going on between Søren and Sindre, and the Dutchman had found himself mixed up between the lines along with Kai, an unfortunate innocent bystander to what all was going on. Søren had told Kai to maintain solidarity with himself; to take his side in everything that was happening, when the younger Dane was completely outside the box of what the hell was even going on. All he could do when his older cousin made the request as they wrote Easter letters was smile, nod, flash a thumbs up and say something dumb to make the situation all right. He then went back about his business baking some cinnamon buns and lace cookies once his hair had been bleached and the letters finished, the situation resolved.
So why he had pulled Willem's address from Søren's phone? Curiosity. Why had he packaged up all those baked goods, and made head way to the Dutchman's apartment? A deathwish. It's not like it wouldn't be obvious who he was. After bringing his hair back to a state of natural blonde he looked nearly just like Søren, only smaller and ringed with small metal studs.
He double checked several times the slip of paper and the number engraved on the apartment door, shuffling the parcel of baked goods between his arms as he wrestled with indecision. To knock, to ding dong doorbell ditch the baked goods, or to run away like some sort of pansy. The last two seemed like the better of his ideas - but they'd accomplish nothing. So it was with the most brave and yet timid of knocks he announced himself before stepping back to stare wide eyed at the door.
When: Sunday Evening, March 20th
Where: Willem's apartment
What: The Dutchman and the pint-sized Dane finally meet, though very much at a whim.
It was a name he had heard in his earlier years when Søren went off to school or would return home on trips. It was a name that constantly frequented his emails with his older cousin before Kai moved to America. It was a name that he had heard off and on in conversations between Sindre and Søren, around Liberty, ever so often in eavesdropped conversation. It was a name that he now heard frequently, though replaced with angered curses rather than happier thoughts or fond memories. It was a name he knew well, but didn't have the vaguest idea of a face, a voice, a goddamn clue to place with it.
But he at least seemed to know something about what was going on between Søren and Sindre, and the Dutchman had found himself mixed up between the lines along with Kai, an unfortunate innocent bystander to what all was going on. Søren had told Kai to maintain solidarity with himself; to take his side in everything that was happening, when the younger Dane was completely outside the box of what the hell was even going on. All he could do when his older cousin made the request as they wrote Easter letters was smile, nod, flash a thumbs up and say something dumb to make the situation all right. He then went back about his business baking some cinnamon buns and lace cookies once his hair had been bleached and the letters finished, the situation resolved.
So why he had pulled Willem's address from Søren's phone? Curiosity. Why had he packaged up all those baked goods, and made head way to the Dutchman's apartment? A deathwish. It's not like it wouldn't be obvious who he was. After bringing his hair back to a state of natural blonde he looked nearly just like Søren, only smaller and ringed with small metal studs.
He double checked several times the slip of paper and the number engraved on the apartment door, shuffling the parcel of baked goods between his arms as he wrestled with indecision. To knock, to ding dong doorbell ditch the baked goods, or to run away like some sort of pansy. The last two seemed like the better of his ideas - but they'd accomplish nothing. So it was with the most brave and yet timid of knocks he announced himself before stepping back to stare wide eyed at the door.