This isn't a "leak", this is just wild speculation. OP just took last year's dates and assumed they'd be the same this year. They're just trying to pretend that they have insider knowledge.
Francis hurries from the living room, speedy as a cat that’s just heard food hit the bowl, almost slipping in his socks on the smooth flooring, and he gives himself a quick check-and-fix in the hallway mirror before he sets his hand upon the latch, takes a breath, and opens it wide with mustered composure.
He is greeted by a faceful of pinks, whites and reds. A gentle, calming, fresh scent tickles his nose and makes him smile.
“Flowers?” he asks his guest coyly. “For me?”
From behind the giant bouquet peers Alasdair. His face is redder than normal, though Francis can’t tell if that is from the cold weather, from his sheepishness, or because he perhaps rushed to Francis’ home in the same way Francis himself had recently broken a sweat.
Whatever the reason, he is adorable. His freckles are like a field of strawberries—so sweet, so moreish.
“Always,” Alasdair replies. A smile has appeared, only a little bit timid, and he continues to hold out the bouquet. “D’you… like them?”
“Always,” Francis promised him. “You always bring me such beautiful flowers.”
He invites Alasdair inside. Their plans involve lunch (all Franis’ doing; everything is prepared and there is food cooking in the oven right this very moment), and from there, they may just see how the afternoon goes. They may venture out, they may stay in. It’s all to play for.
Francis has come to enjoy the spontaneity within his relationship with the other. Everything is like an adventure, no matter how small. Every decision, every gesture, every conversation…
The flowers really are gorgeous. Francis takes them from Alasdair’s hands and bestows a kiss on the cheek by way of thanks, before he readies to whisk them away. Alasdair, in the meantime, struggles to pull off his boots, hobbling and hopping about until he manages to kick one off, then force the other off with a fierce tug. He’s so well trained, Francis can’t help but jest. No shoes in the house had been one of the first rules established, and Alasdair has never let him down.
Jacket hung up on the end of the staircase bannister, Alasdair follows Francis to the kitchen. There, Francis sets down his bouquet, gently pulls off the tape that holds down tissue paper wrapping, and he opens up his present.
“Could you pull down a vase for me?” he asks the other, nodding towards a small hutch at the other end of the kitchen. It contains a few special pieces, including some inherited crystal, but the vases sit on the top shelf in the cabinet.
Alasdair, as always, is happy to oblige.
He carefully grabs down one of the taller vases that Francis believes should do the trick. He brings it over and sets it down on the kitchen counter next to the flowers, whose stems Francis is now trimming with scissors.
The scratchy sensation of young stubble brushes against his cheek. Arms have appeared loosely around his body. Francis smiles. Alasdair gives him a homely kiss near his ear.
“I’m glad you like ‘em,” he remarks as he settles his chin on Francis’ shoulder. “Swear to God I was standing there for hours trying to decide.”
A soft laugh of sorts escapes an amused Francis as he picks up a rose, clips it, and gives it a sniff. “It was certainly worth your time,” he returns. “Now you get to spend a few hours with me as your reward.”
“Just a few hours, eh?” Alasdair teases.
“Or longer,” Francis says. He turns his head to look at the other. “You know I’d gladly have you overnight.”
Alasdair gives a slow hum. “‘S damn tempting.”
“I should hope so!”
“Sure you won’t get sick of me by this evening?”
“Of you?” Francis responds, somewhat surprised. “Never…”
Truth is, Francis could see himself spending years with Alasdair, let alone an evening. And he means years. They’ve been seeing each other for about five months, and they’ve been the happiest months of his life. He’s never known a love like it. So an evening? That’s a piece of cake. A cake he’s savoured before and would savour again. A cake he really, really craves today, come to think of it…
“Let’s just see how it goes,” is Alasdair’s decision, and one that Francis agrees to with a smile.
They share another kiss, short and sweet, and Alasdair offers to pour Francis a drink, or help with anything else that needs doing for their lunch. Francis settles for the wine first; dinner will be another forty minutes or so and nothing else needs doing.
That leaves them time to chat, plan, and drink together. A good start to their day—a day that, if Francis is lucky (and he knows he is), will turn to night.
What’s Sweden’s fashion like? Does he have Stockholm style or sumn lmao I bet our king has some style
I'm not that familiar with style names (or different cores), or whatever they're called nowadays. But I imagine Swe would be the type of person to wear very simple but comfortable clothes. Rather investing in higher quality pieces than buying into trends, everything is very minimalistic and monochrome with a clean design; no crazy patterns. A classic button-up and a high-quality sweater always work! Nothing too itchy or too tight though, no sensory nightmares. He's practical with his clothes, and dresses according to weather, but he still wants to make sure the outfit looks good. I think Sweden is the most stylish of the group, but it's more like a timeless, business-casual kind of vibe.
I got inspired by this question and decided to draw the other Nordics in some "ordinary outfits" to their daily lives as well. Maybe the visual drawing gives a better description than my words ever could!
As you may have noticed, one very important person is missing. I put Norway on a timeout because I had to redraw him three times and he still looked awful, so for the sake of my sanity I'm still posting this without him. Sorry Norway stans, I'll make this up to you some other time <3 He would have showed up in a sweater and hiking pants anyway
gummygunk
areudirty
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
prguitarman
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
snowghoul
romaincrisis
