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@postbearer
POSTBEARER. ask — submit
RP blog for Jesper Johansen from Netflix's Klaus
at a glance this blog is: semi-selective and multiverse. Crossovers encouraged, OC and female muse-friendly ✗ Canon compliant with strong headcanon influences ✗ 18+ only ✗ Slow or sporadic activity ✗ Beloved by Giffie (she/her, 21+, PDT) ✗ EST. 11/26/23
Uses Beta Editor + XKit Rewritten
Follows from @litteris
rules — muse — verses — tags — tracker
"I'll drink to that!" And so he does before considering Johansen's question about London, brows knitted over his thick glasses. "Chaotic, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Fantastic restaurants. Great theatres! Covent Garden... my god..." With a playful roll of his eyes, he gives a toss of his free hand. "Absolutely amazing. That's an opera house, by the way, and not an actual garden. So funny that they named it that. I know why, and it makes sense, because there used to be a fruit market somewhere in the area, but it's still funny."
As the music crescendos around them, Fry is struck by the temptation to call Melisha over and introduce her to Jesper, if nothing else to distract her from browsing the selection of male aristocrats, bachelors or otherwise, but in the end, he decides not to; the risk of spending the journey back to England nursing bruises of varying sizes (likely to happen either way, being honest) is not worth the brief reprieve from jealousy.
"So, why aren't you out dancing?" Straight to the point, this one, peering up at the taller man with genuine, innocent curiosity. Though the question may be an unwelcome one, it is at least void of any malice or suspicion; if anything, the doctor sounds concerned for his compatriot in misery. "Is it the music? Not a fan?"
This guy is going to ruin the mood Jesper's been trying to set for the entire evening (which is supposed to be cold, dark, and generally oppressive) when he catches himself cracking another smile at the animated eye roll and enthusiastic antidotes regarding his clearly beloved city. Fry is refreshingly easy to talk to. Funny, engaging, and personable.
Yet through no fault of his own, the man's innocent enough question does serve to remind the blonde of why he was brooding in the first place. On that note, a sigh is expelled, quickly replacing the smile with a slight pursing of lips as Jesper casts his eyes out over the crowd once more. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that. It's just that— well…"
Fingertips drumming against the side of his glass for a moment, he genuinely considers changing the subject. Sticking with his first inclination of not dragging friendly strangers into personal affairs. Of course, this internal debate only lasts a few seconds before his focus shifts back to the other. This time, when he speaks, there's an air of secrecy, his tone lowering as he leans in.
"All right, between you and me, I didn't even want to be here tonight. My dad said it would be a 'good experience' for me since, apparently, you can just enroll people into schools without their knowledge. First, it's the postal academy, but before you know it, it's Postmaster General. I mean, pardon me, but do I want to devote my life to delivering the mail?" Poor guy. He may be too easy to talk to.
To stop himself there (and to offer Fry a window for escape), Jesper briefly occupies himself with his drink again.
"Fry," he beams, taking the junior Mr. Johanssen's hand in his free one and shaking it firmly, enthusiastically. "Dr. Mark Fry, representing the Neurological Society of London alongside my darling wife—preoccupied at the moment, I'm afraid, but I do recommend hitting her up later for a chat about her revolutionary ideas for industrial-scale chicken farming." Always one for theatrics, the introduction is punctuated by a shallow bow before Fry lets Johanssen have his hand back, then takes an experimental sip of the Manzanilla.
"Oh! Tasty." Smacking his lips like a professional wine judge, he tips the glass again, pinky held aloft while he samples the sherry a second time. "Perhaps if we drink enough, we'll start having fun. Is that how this all works?" He is joking, of course, in an attempt to brighten the younger man's mood. If tonight is to be a miserable one, they may as well laugh about it.
The leap from neurology to agriculture is an interesting one. Quite the dynamic duo. And it's definitely none of Jesper's business to silently speculate on the fact that, despite coming in together, the woman had only become moderately less severe-looking after finding someone who wasn't her husband to apparently spend the majority of the evening with. Or at least, Jesper feels a little bad for having silently speculated about them, now conversing with the seemingly pleasant man himself.
Whatever the situation between them, the pseudo-future postman does indeed spare a smile (small but genuine, the first one of the night), a quiet chuckle escaping as he inclines his head down and to one side, lifting his glass up in something of a mock toast. "Well, here's to finding out." A joke for a joke, although he does take another drink himself— albeit downing a smidgen more than a simple sip.
After just a beat, he turns fully toward the doctor. "London. I've never been; what's it like there?" He may not be here for the academics (no specialty, apart from avoiding ever having had a real job), but who doesn't appreciate a little travel chit-chat now and then?
@postbearer
As consciousness dawns on him, then blossoms into awareness, Hofnarr's first thought, muddled though it may be, is that he is not alone; there is someone in the room with him, slumped over what appears to be a... desk? Without his glasses, and with his full moon-addled brain, everything is so blurry that he wouldn't know for certain. His second is that his arms have been tied together around the pole behind him, while his third is that it feels like someone scooped out all his viscera and left a scorching pit of hunger in its stead.
No kill last night, then, despite everything. What a relief.
Head hanging so low and limply that one might suspect him of being dead, had it not been for his shallow breathing, Hofnarr swallows, attempting to alleviate his paper-dry throat, and pushes the soles of his bare feet across the floor. The canvas bag thrown across his legs only offers so much protection from the cold, but he barely feels its bite—or anything else, really—in the throes of last night's disaster. Even the flutter of a chicken relocating from one perch to another seems worlds away, as if heard through glass.
With his head laid across one arm (bent at an uncomfortably sharp angle, elbow turned inward rather than out) and his other arm resting against the edge of the makeshift desk (hand tucked away beneath his chin), in contrast, Jesper hears the chicken moving about as if it were right next to his ear. Despite losing the battle with sleep at some point, the postman has been on high alert since yesterday. And, if possible, even more so after last night's troubling discovery.
A discovery that, when he finally sits up with a start, sleep-blurred eyes immediately falling on the seated figure a mere couple of feet away, he's dismayed to realize it wasn't just some horrible nightmare after all.
"Oh god, you're still here." The words are mumbled, more to himself than to the man he can't rightly say is conscious or not. With this, he slumps over the desk again, only this time it's to scrub his hand across his face, acknowledging yet ignoring the ache in his shoulder; it's the least of his concerns right now. "You're still here, which means that all actually happened, and I really do have a stranger tied up in my post office. A stranger who— who— I don't know, tried to eat me? Oh god."
by Nik Rijavec
I rewatched Klaus
Brooding though he may be, this guy is already a great deal more entertaining than most of the other guests he has rubbed elbows with tonight, to the point that Fry can't keep his smile from widening at his repeated insistence on elaborating. He evidently also knows his wines, so it's the Manzanilla that he keeps coming back to, recalling that his companion in party-induced misery labeled it his personal favorite.
"Oh. Well, you made quite a strong case for the Manzanilla, so if you don't mind..." Scooting over to occupy the space that the other so thoughtfully cleared for him, he grabs a clean glass and pours himself a modest sample of the pale gold liquid. Beautiful, he muses before giving it a quick sniff and deciding that oh, yes, this will do just fine to wash the bitterness of jealousy from his tongue.
"You're with the postmaster, no? Mr. Johanssen?"
"That's right, my father." Resisting the urge to make something of a (further) spectacle out of the family drama by dragging an unsuspecting stranger into it all over one innocent question, he bites his tongue in the metaphorical sense, instead turning toward the man, the hand not currently holding a glass extending itself forward. An invitation to shake, of course. "Jesper."
Well, so much for not giving his parents the satisfaction of catching him socializing tonight, but this is the first and only other person he hasn't wanted to chase off by simply exerting his generally poor aura. After all, misery loves company, or so it goes, and thanks to the fact that Jesper's done little else apart from people-watch, he already has suspicions about why this one's decided to hover near the drinks table with him now— even despite the bright smile.
"So what— or who— brings you here, Mister…?"
@postbearer
By all accounts, he should be enjoying himself, surrounded by socialites from several different countries, including a handful of academic peers from the Norwegian Society of Sciences and Letters, but as he watches a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of luscious hair dip Melisha so low that her black bun nearly sweeps across the dance floor, the only thing Fry feels is a painful tightening of his chest. Distracting himself does nothing; his gaze always ends up finding her, her purple dress shimmering like the coat of some slender, elegant bird in the crowd of primarily earthy-colored outfits.
And the guy just dipped her again.
Swallowing his pride, the doctor rises, frowning, from his chair, then makes his way over to the table set with drinks and desserts, all presented in elaborate glass and silverware, some with petal-like embellishments and elaborately-engraved handles that bring to mind a sort of sculptural calligraphy. With most of the other guests preoccupied on the dance floor, there is only one other man there, hovering uncomfortably around a lion-footed decanter containing what smells like some sort of sherry. Not a bad idea, actually, sampling that.
"Any recommendations?" The question is accompanied by a bright, genuine smile as Fry shuffles over to the stranger, his hands clasped behind his back. "Or warnings, heh. I'm not exactly a connoisseur."
Jesper has been stationed at this table for the better part of the evening, doing very little to hide the open disinterest written across his face (strategically put there should his father look in his direction). "Building connections" had been the reason for his dragging him here. When asked what he needed connections in the academic world for, Heinrik felt it appropriate to inform his son that he'd guaranteed him a spot in the postal academy— his father's postal academy— and he's been busy sulking ever since.
When the only other man looking as out-of-sorts as himself wanders over, a sidelong glance is given, the blonde only turning his head as much as he has to. If he's honest, the sincere smile and attempt at genuine small talk are refreshing. Still, he's brooding, so the older man gets something of an indifferent response; Jesper nods once toward one of the decanters, the very one he's been more or less bogarting.
"Manzanilla Clásica." Taking a wide step to one side should the other decide to go with this suggestion, the same light-colored liquid sloshes harmlessly in his own glass with the motion, his other hand stashed away inside a pocket. As if this is to be the extent of their exchange, Jesper turns his attention back to the room. Only to glance back over a second later. "It's my favorite, actually," he remarks, despite trying to play it cool. Turning away again, again only to turn back. "Unless you prefer something darker, in which case I'd go with an oloroso." At this, his hand is freed and used to gesture vaguely toward a few other options.
He looks away again, and while it almost seems like this is the stopping point— "They have a little more alcohol in them, though," he adds, this time without looking back. The guy had asked for warnings.
Unfortunately for Jesper, it was going to happen -- and his life was about to turn super upside down with the freaks about to enter his life. The Matsuno sextuplets hadn't at all expected to be thrown back in history anywhere, but at this point, why the hell SHOULDN'T they have? They've gone to Hell before, and this is where they draw the line? Yeah, right! They should really stop being surprised with all the weird things that happen to them.
After all, it'd happened so suddenly -- one moment, they were all on a boat towards the arctic in search of that damned fruit.. And the next, they were suddenly in the worlds' foggiest mountains! After a bit of a strange brain haze, and a loose, itchy feeling that almost felt like phasing through jello despite nothing thick in sight to CAUSE this feeling … they'd found themselves in deeply unfamiliar scenery. The fog behind them had cleared a little, but it hadn't at ALL looked like … the weird, dilapidated place they were in now.
The only thing in sight was a shoddily made little dock station, and a rickety boat in the distance. Todomatsu was scared by this strange darkness already; he'd started to cling to Choromatsu's back, burying his face and only barely peeking around while his elder brother led him forward. None of the other brothers said a word about it; just exchanged a worried glance, is all.
Needless to say, they had no fucking clue where they were. And even less so when this boatman started talking to them all, just as baffled by their existence as they were about his. The sextuplets, with their clothes that didn't even REMOTELY look appropriate for both the weather or the time period, it wasn't exactly easy to miss the look of disbelief - and intrigue - on Mogen's face. After a little back and forth, and desperately trying to clarify that they were trying to look for the way back, that they'd definitely taken a wrong turn -- well, they didn't exactly have anything that could get them away from this seemingly neverending foggy landscape.
Despite groans and a bunch of indignant, displeased noises from the brothers, Mogens waved them off and told them to not worry. He said they could eventually leave if they could hunker down somewhere and waited out the fog spell, which would inevitably take a few weeks -- or maybe even months. Who knew with the kind of strange weather Smeerensburg was always susceptible to? The brothers said they didn't know a place where they COULD stay, they hadn't even meant to be here - but then, Mogens said he knew somewhere.
So, after a too-long and far too cold boat ride, along with a very unsettling ride through this town that looked like something out of silent hill, they arrived at a town center. There was a bell there, and everything was deathly silent; Mogens had encouraged them to ring the bell, and people would come out and greet them. Not a single one of them fell for it, though Jyushimatsu almost did -- but Choromatsu insisted that it was too shady, and Todomatsu, frightened, staunchly refused to move. So, Mogen's attempt to ring the battlebell fell flat.
They pressed forward towards the edge of town, once Mogens had realized they weren't going to ring it. No enjoyment to be found from tricking people here! There was only one place that the sextuplets could be dumped off at with little explanation, and from where Mogens could just scurry away from after making these boys no longer his problem.
It wasn't lost on the brothers how dilapidated the post office was, though; even moreso than the rest of town, this place didn't seem very structurally safe or welcoming, and before any of them could protest, Mogens ushered them in. One by one, each of the brothers filed in, stepping through the rickety doorway and forming a small gaggle. They were all FAR shorter than Jesper; in fact, all of them seemed to be relatively the same height, except for the one in pink who was noticably far shorter than the others. All of them stared at Jesper with a blank stare as Mogens prattled off about how they were new, and needed a place to stay. And then, that boatman was just.. gone.
Now they were left with a stranger they'd never seen before. The air in the room was uncomfortable, and as a draft blew by, the brothers each shivered. They, however, didn't immediately jump to introductions like they probably should have. Before they even got a chance, Osomatsu was the first to speak, having wandered over to where one of the many chickens were.
Poking its head a little too rough ( albeit unintentionally ), he'd loudly commented, "Man! This place looks terrible! Are these chickens supposed to be here?"
Choromatsu stepped forward, tugging at Osomatsu's shirt a little. Todomatsu followed close behind, though in the presence of this new person, his grip had slackened. He still looked uncomfortable as he tapped away at his phone, though.
"Hey now, have some tact! Clearly, this guy can't afford somewhere better.."
"Oh, damn! Good point. I didn't think about that."
"I know. You never think about anything."
"Hrrmghh.... Guuyyyyys .. I don't think there's any cell service here..."
"No shit. Did you even see the fog on the way here? I doubt they even have a cell tower anywhere near here.."
"Do you think they'd have a baseball field though?"
"Does this look like the kind of place that would?"
Jyushimatsu just kept smiling right through Choromatsu's retort, then. The kind of empty smile remniscent of a concrete object turning around. After a long moment of an uncomfortable stare, he waved his floppy sleeves in the air. "Ya, maybe! Never say never!!"
"But I say never all the time."
And as their conversation carried on, the only one who hadn't yet spoken a word was busy...... posing? Trying to look cool, giving Jesper a smug look as he thought, surely, this guy's opinion on how cool he is matters. After a long moment of trying to look cool and pretend to ignore him, he was the first to actually march forward and tug his sunglasses down, looking at Jesper with brown eyes that were far too sparkly and flirty for a first meeting.
"Heh. You know, anyone ever tell ya you're a real looker?"
All the brothers heads turned in unison to reprimand Karamatsu for that line.
"SERIOUSLY?" "Flirting?" "At a time like this?" "Have you no shame?!" "Uhh, are you forgetting who you're talking about? Guys, he's Karamatsu! He has no shame!"
... That seemed to deflate him, just a little. But still, he pressed onward.
"What's so wrong with it? It can't make things any worse!"
"Well it's not gonna make things any better, either!"
Poor Jesper. If he doesn't interrupt their conversation that's quickly spiralling into an argument, then he might never get a word in! These guys really are like bulls in a china shop, doing whatever the hell they wanted... where are their manners?!
( SIKE. they have little to none. )
The expression of pure confusion written across the postman's face makes it more than a little evident that he's currently speedrunning the five stages of grief; there's already been denial, and anger had been nothing more than a flash across his features when he was deemed too broke to live anywhere else (which is true, in a sense, but that's beside the point).
Bargaining, however, is derailed when, after gathering enough presence of mind to look around, Jesper finds no trace of Mogens. Hopefully, the ferryman's off enjoying his last moments on earth since the next time their paths cross, he's going to kill him and dump the remains in the icy depths beneath the dock.
Of course, a second later, movement is caught in his peripheral, bringing his attention back to the immediate situation when one of the brothers proceeds to step forward and— flirt with him? He can't. He can't even begin to address everything happening here, so raising both hands to briefly press two fingers against each temple, they're lowered only far enough to be held out in front of himself in another dismissive wave, this time more akin to the fairly universal stop gesture, before interrupt he does.
"Okay, all right, look; I don't know if you all heard me before, what with being outside and the wind and everything, but this is a post office, and I am a postman." Alright, maybe he can't help himself from getting the slightest bit passive-aggressive toward the comment about his living conditions. "I would love to help you out, really I would, but seeing as you're not employees here, and we're closed right now, well, that means you're transpassing, so by law, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you all to leave."
At some point during all this, a little scratch to his nose is given before still hovering hands are clasped together at chest level. The image of sincerity. Is Jesper honestly trying to kick the twins out into the dark, unforgiving cold of the storm? Absolutely. He wants to be able to sleep tonight without the worry of being murdered by sextuplets and having his body discovered buried in a snowbank behind the building some weeks later. Which isn't a concern he ever saw himself having, and yet, here he is.
Besides, they seem like resourceful fellows. He's sure they'll be fine.
When the other man speaks, it becomes increasingly justified exactly why Jesper had deliberately placed the mailbox between himself and the mysterious stranger. Although all at once, this attempt to keep that distance there feels woefully inadequate once his uniform is easily grabbed, arms reflexively pressing against the edge of the flimsy structure, still in a desperate bid to maintain some semblance of personal space.
Miraculously, the postman manages to bite back the brunt of his knee-jerk reaction to this most unwelcome intrusion; only the curl of his lower lip and the slight jut of his chin suggest that it's all a very fragile facade indeed. It's not so much bravado as it is sheer indignation at this point— despite the little voice in the back of his mind begging him to give it up already.
"If it was so easy, then why am I still here." It isn't a question because he doesn't want an answer, considering it was luck, pure and simple. Luck and a coincidentally well-placed horse.
@intodivergence, continued from somewhere over the rainbow
The decidedly unspectacular morning in Smeerensburg hadn't started off that much more differently than most others, although the exceptionally nasty weather did suggest that it was only going to get worse as the day progressed; the sun obscured by a thick, freezing fog, which dragged the already frigid temperatures down even further. Despite this fact, and with little else to do, the postman made his usual rounds as always.
Rounds, which were, as always, entirely unfruitful— at least so far as letters were concerned. Recently, the fair townspeople had begun leaving other things inside their mailboxes, such as rusty knives, assorted pieces of trash, and, even once or twice, the occasional small rodent carcass. Truth be told, Jesper couldn't say whether they were trying to threaten each other or him at this point.
Sadly, without proper postage, the troubling trinkets remained untouched. Sometimes, they were gone the next day, and sometimes, there were more. If nothing else, the experience broke up a bit of the monotony in his routine (while instilling a sense of some unappreciated paranoia on the side).
Around town, there had been talk of a storm. Later that afternoon, it had arrived.
It's still reasonably early, yet the sky is as dark as pitch. Because of this, a lantern on the makeshift desk is placed near the mailman, who's sat behind the post office's workspace. Legs crossed at the ankles and boots propped up against the edge, he gingerly picks at his fingernails with an old, discarded letter opener. Outside, heavy snow works on blanketing the island, and the wind that makes it through the cracks of the dilapidated building bounces the candle's flame around wildly. It's so bad that Jesper briefly considers just calling it a day and turning in when the front door flying open nearly extinguishes the light completely.
Before he realizes it, a yelp is startled out of him— feet hitting the ground while the letter opener is inadvertently and haphazardly tossed somewhere behind him. A moment later, an all-too-familiar form pushes its way inside.
"Heya, sport."
Mogens. Who at least has the good graces enough not to comment on the shriek prefacing this impromptu visit of his. And without giving the postman (now clutching at his own chest) time to respond, he carries right along, shaking the blizzard from his coat as he crosses the threshold. "I hope you don't mind, but I just picked up some, uh, interesting newcomers, and there's no other accommodations for 'em in town."
"Newcomers? What? No, that's not going to happen." Standing up, Jesper gives a quick outward sweep of his hands in a vague, dismissive gesture. "I'm not sure you've noticed; this is a post office, not a hotel. I'm sorry, but I can't just—"
"Great," clearly not listening, Mogens interjects, turning to address the darkness beyond the still-open door. "Come on in, fellas."
@nosomatsu, gets a starter. Signed, sealed, delivered— it's yours
