[Action Post: at some unspecified point last week]
At first Berwald hadn't known. It had been right after Flower Egg had finally returned back to her normal shape. Berwald was rather sure they'd both been relieved at it. He had slept half the day away on friday, Flower Egg curled up at the foot of the bed, a warm snuffling shape against Berwald's feet.
After he'd finally gotten up, he'd spent a leisurely morning. When Sindre arrived he was in the cellar doing woodcarving, not even having seen the text and only by sheer luck was there some alcohol left in the kitchen cabinets.
He'd noticed, perhaps, something off about Sindre, fow his smiles were forced and how he kept slipping into thought at odd times. He hadn't asked, even when he'd suggested they put the television on and Sindre's dispute of the idea was a bit too vehement.
Then Berwald had got a call from his father, and all became... not exactly clear, but he understood why Sindre was acting the way he did. Somehow, once he understood what his father was talking about, one look at Sindre's stiff posture where he pretended to be reading a book had convinced him to step outside the room. Even after he ended the call, he'd stood there a long moment, frozen in place by shock and horror and compassion towards the people involved... and when something like this happened, wasn't everyone, to some extent.
But it seemed like Sindre wanted to pretend like nothing had happened, and Berwald didn't know how to do else but respect it.
It started out that way, and continued in the same vein, when Valdi came to visit, and when they all went back to the apartment and Sindre put on the television and the computer and followed any news he could find. His face grew blank, with anger passing on it sometimes like the shadow of a storm cloud, but he didn't say a word about it. Berwald didn't either, just stayed close and brought Sindre something to eat and drink whenever he'd been without for what seemed too long, asked him if he'd like extra pillows on the sofa. He almost expected Sindre to get annoyed with him, but he didn't, beyond telling Berwald to sit down a few times, and then pressing close to him, though his eyes were glued to the information on the computer screen.
Still, Berwald had never been good with words, so he worried, but kept his silence. If Sindre had something to say, he'd tell him, Berwald could only hope. What else could he do?
After he'd finally gotten up, he'd spent a leisurely morning. When Sindre arrived he was in the cellar doing woodcarving, not even having seen the text and only by sheer luck was there some alcohol left in the kitchen cabinets.
He'd noticed, perhaps, something off about Sindre, fow his smiles were forced and how he kept slipping into thought at odd times. He hadn't asked, even when he'd suggested they put the television on and Sindre's dispute of the idea was a bit too vehement.
Then Berwald had got a call from his father, and all became... not exactly clear, but he understood why Sindre was acting the way he did. Somehow, once he understood what his father was talking about, one look at Sindre's stiff posture where he pretended to be reading a book had convinced him to step outside the room. Even after he ended the call, he'd stood there a long moment, frozen in place by shock and horror and compassion towards the people involved... and when something like this happened, wasn't everyone, to some extent.
But it seemed like Sindre wanted to pretend like nothing had happened, and Berwald didn't know how to do else but respect it.
It started out that way, and continued in the same vein, when Valdi came to visit, and when they all went back to the apartment and Sindre put on the television and the computer and followed any news he could find. His face grew blank, with anger passing on it sometimes like the shadow of a storm cloud, but he didn't say a word about it. Berwald didn't either, just stayed close and brought Sindre something to eat and drink whenever he'd been without for what seemed too long, asked him if he'd like extra pillows on the sofa. He almost expected Sindre to get annoyed with him, but he didn't, beyond telling Berwald to sit down a few times, and then pressing close to him, though his eyes were glued to the information on the computer screen.
Still, Berwald had never been good with words, so he worried, but kept his silence. If Sindre had something to say, he'd tell him, Berwald could only hope. What else could he do?