#aphfanficnet

[pyrrhocorax]

Basically Denmark and Norway go searching for birds, have awkward misadventures, and sleep together.

For the @aph-fanfic-network prompt event, with the prompt being "rivals who are secretly banging." Genre: mostly humor with a little drama Word Count: 7797

[aph-fanfic-network]

Drabble Event - Pt. 5

Title: Three AM

Pairing: Ameripan

Written By: prince-norway

--

CRASH

Kiku’s eyes flew open as his body jolted upright in the bed. He listened as the house became quiet for a moment, then the noise resumed with a sort of muffled, uneven thumping and scratching.

Kiku glanced from the alarm clock next to his bed to the lightly snoring form of his boyfriend, Alfred, next to him.

“Alfred!” He whispered, hardly daring to breathe. When he didn’t respond, Kiku firmly shook him on the shoulder. “Alfred, I think that someone’s downstairs!”

The blond man groaned into his pillow before shifting his head to the side. He cracked open one sleepy eye and yawned. “Whazzat?”

Kiku huffed and raised his voice slightly. “There is a burglar in our house!”

Alfred’s eyes flew open. “WHAT?!” He yelled, haphazardly trying to scramble into a sitting position.  Kiku held his breath as Alfred somehow managed so hit his head on the bedside lamp, sending it flying to the floor in a cascade of glass shards that echoed through the house.

“Please try to be more quiet! What if they hear us?” Kiku hissed, his eyes darting around the dark room as if an intruder could be in any corner.

Alfred pulled himself back up onto the bed. “Sorry. Are you sure that there’s someone here?” he whispered, his eyes wide in the darkness of their bedroom.

Kiku nodded towards the ground. “The noise woke me up,” he replied, reaching for the phone charging on his bedside table. “We need to call the police.”

“No way! We can totally handle a burglar by ourselves!” Alfred insisted. Kiku frowned at him and Alfred stood up, gently taking the phone from his hands.

“We can get ‘em!” Alfred whispered enthusiastically. He turned in circles as he scanned the room for something before striding over to their closet. He deftly opened the door and began rummaging around through the piles of junk in it, muttering to himself. Kiku slipped out of bed and padded over to him.

“So, I’ll take this.” Alfred straightened up out of the closet, an old baseball bat in his hands. “And you can have…” He awkwardly handed the bat to Kiku and went back to digging through the closet for a few moments before stepping back from the door, his arms full with a large pillow.

Kiku glanced at it for a second before putting his face in his hands. “Alfred, no.” The pillow had been a gag gift from one of Kiku’s brothers a few years ago: a full-sized dakimakura with (thankfully at least partially-dressed) images of Hatsune Miku on each side of it. Alfred had thought that it was hilarious, and Kiku didn’t have the heart to throw it away, so it had been hidden away in their closet for years. Looking at it now, though, Kiku could’ve burned it.

Alfred didn’t move. “Come on, babe! You could totally fight with it. Or just throw it in the asshole’s face to distract him while I rush at him,” he insisted, his eyes glowing with excitement.

Kiku was about to ask whether Alfred couldn’t check the closet for anything better one more time until another crash sounded from below them. He took the pillow reluctantly from Alfred and nodded. “Hai. Let’s go.”

A few minutes, a couple of hushes, a 'super cool ninja spy trick’ from Alfred that sent him tumbling down the stairs, and four band-aids later, Kiku and Alfred stood waiting just outside the kitchen door.

“Ready, darling?” Alfred whispered, a crazy smile lighting his face.

Kiku sighed and stood on his toes to place a quick kiss on his boyfriend’s lips. “Please be careful,” he replied.

Alfred winked. “'Careful’ is my middle name. Well, I mean, it’s actually 'Francis’, but…” He shook his head and grabbed Kiku’s hand. “Alright, on the count of three, we burst in there, flip on the light and start screaming. He’ll shit himself before he can retaliate!”

“What?!”

Alfred let go of his hand and brought a finger to his lips, a warning to be quiet. Kiku stared at him for a moment, closed his eyes in defeat, and braced himself with the dakimakura.

“Three…. Two… One!”

Alfred’s excited screaming rang through the house before Kiku could even flip the kitchen lights on. He chased after him into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his pillow, and spun wildly for a few seconds before smacking the lightswitch. Both of them yelled as the sudden light blinded them, and in their confusion they knocked straight into each other and tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Alfred began swinging his baseball bat around wildly as he tried to untangle himself from Kiku, who narrowly avoided a blow to the head from it. “BRING IT ON!” He hollered, accidentally whacking Kiku’s pillow square onto the stove.

Starting to regain his sight, Kiku dove after the pillow. He used the stove to pull himself up, grabbed the dakimakura, and looked all around the kitchen for the invader.

There were a number of cereal boxes on the floor, a couple of silverware drawers opened slightly, and a number of brand-new scuff marks on the walls, but nobody there except for Alfred, who was still flailing around on the floor. Kiku frowned, cautiously scanning the kitchen again. “Alfred, there’s nobody here.”

The yelling stopped abruptly and Alfred paused his movements to look up at him. “What? But what about the noise?” He asked.

Before Kiku could reply, a sharp hiss sounded from a spot above him and to the right. He jumped back from the stove in surprise and looked up to see a beautifully dappled ragdoll cat watching him from a semi-empty cupboard. A swish of it’s long, fluffy tail sent a small box of Miso Soup packets flying to the floor where it landed among the cereal boxes and a few mangled cans of tuna.

“I think that this is our 'burglar’,” Kiku answered. He picked up one of the cans of tuna from the floor and peeled back the lid before grabbing a small plate. “The poor thing must’ve come in here looking for a meal, he has to be starving,” he sighed, dumping the contents of the can onto the plate. He carefully held the plate up to the cupboard to let the cat sniff it, then placed it back on the counter. He backed away, and after a few seconds of distrustful glaring, the cat leapt down from the cupboard and ravenously gobbled up the fish.

Kiku watched him eat, satisfied. Alfred handed him another dented can of tuna, and Kiku deftly opened it and dumped it onto the plate. To his surprise, the cat didn’t flinch away or hiss again at his approach.

“Well, he’s not feral,” Alfred suggested, finally getting up from the floor.

Kiku smiled at him. “Nope. I’d bet you anything that he’s a sweetheart that just got lost from home.” He redirected his attention to the cat, who was just finishing up the second can of fish. Kiku stepped forward and gently reached out his hand to let the cat smell it.

The cat delicately sniffed his fingers, then happily rubbed his head into Kiku’s palm, purring loudly. Kiku scratched behind his ears. “We should wash him up and scrounge up a bed for him until we can get him to the vet tomorrow.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Or, today, I guess.”

“I think I know what will work for a bed,” Alfred chimed, patting the dakimakura.

**

An hour later the pair was back in bed, their freshly-washed and fed little 'burglar’ curled up in the warmth between their chests. Kiku clicked off his bedside lamp and scooted as close as he could to Alfred without squishing the cat.

“Well, we’ve done good,” Alfred sighed, smiling at him through the darkness.

Kiku tangled their legs together. “We have. Maybe we should adopt our own cat once we get this one back to his original family,” he yawned.

Alfred hummed happily. “Can we get a dog, too?”

Kiku sleepily kissed him and let his eyes drift closed. “Only if it doesn’t try to break into our house at three AM.”

[aph-fanfic-network]

Drabble Event- Pt.3

Title: Stranded

By: littleicelandthings

Pairing: SuFin

                “Papa, you got the milk, right?” Peter asked, his nose pressed against the grocery list. He had been put in charge of ticking the items off the list and making sure that the food was in the cart and he was taking his job very seriously. He had double and triple checked each one to the point that Tino had to tell him that they were extra sure it was in the grocery cart.

                “Mm,” Berwald nodded, placing the milk into the cart, behind the child’s back.

                “Cause with the snow coming we hafta be prepared for anything!” Peter seriously pointed out as he used his blue highlighter to put a big check next to Tino’s big printed letters. “Okay, now we need jam!”

                “Peter, we’ll get the jam in a bit,” Tino replied and peeked over the little boy’s shoulder to see what the next item was on the list.

Tino wasn’t anywhere near as concerned as his son was about the snow storm that was on a collision course with their little town. He had grown up in northern Finland and was more than used to the occasional blizzard or five. He knew that Berwald was used to the snow as well and they were both more than capable of managing a little snow flurry like this. But how worked up Peter was getting was a bit adorable. Peter had been adopted from England and over on the Isles they didn’t get snow to the same degree as in Fennoscandia.

The Finn chuckled and shook his head at Peter’s protests and pointed to the next item on the list. “Ber, do you think you could grab a pack of cream cheese?”

“Yeah,” Berwald’s voice was a deep rumble that sounded like it wasn’t used much. He strode ahead of the cart and paused to examine the different brands and flavors of cream cheeses. His blue eyes scanned the packaging before reaching out to grab their usual brand. The cream cheese was deposited into the cart in Peter’s lap. In turn, the little boy checked off cream cheese as Tino pushed the cart up the aisle.

Soon enough the family had made it through the rest of the list and the checkout line with minimum drama. Peter had put up a bit of a fuss when he wasn’t allowed a candy bar from the checkout lane. Tino stood firm against it, but Berwald caved and promised Peter a sweet snack when they got home. A tantrum was averted.

Now he was buckled in the back of their car, playing with an action figure of his as his parents loaded the groceries into the back of the SUV. Tino returned the cart as Berwald slid into the driver’s seat and started the car to warm it up.

“Papa, do you think it’ll snow so much that we’ll have to make a tunnel to get to the mailbox and car?” Peter asked as he swooped his toy robot over his head.

“Mm, don’t think so,” Berwald replied as he watched his spouse jog back towards them. Outside, heavy white flakes had begun to descend from the clouds above. Already the parking lot was beginning to be dusted. “’S not supposed to snow that much.”

“Aw man…” the little boy didn’t even try to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Okay, let’s go!” Tino announced as he let himself into the passenger seat and buckled himself in. Berwald put the car in gear and off they went.

They were about three-quarters of the way home, when they ran into a problem. Peter was explaining the story he was orchestrating to his parents when he was interrupted by a loud, concerning bang. The bang came from the car itself and Berwald immediately pulled the car off onto the shoulder and put the hazards on.

“What on earth was that!?” Tino asked, twisting to look out the window to the road behind them.

“Did someone shoot us!?” Peter asked and his voice was strung between being panicked and excited.

“No, no one shot us,” Tino replied, shooting the boy a scolding look.

“I’ll check it out,” Berwald decided, letting himself out. Both Peter and Tino watched him circle the car and stoop down to examine the undercarriage and wheels. He returned and looked concerned as he indicated for Tino to roll his window down some. “Tire’s popped,” he informed his husband.

“Popped?” Tino’s brow crinkled with concern. “On what?”

“Dunno.”

“Do we have a spare?”

“Don’t think so. ‘Member we used it comin’ back from campin’,” Berwald answered, shaking his head.

Tino aggravatedly ran a hand through his pale blond hair. “So what do we do? The storm’s practically on top of us and we’re stranded on the highway.”

“Cell phone?” Berwald suggested. “Call for a tow?”

“I didn’t bring mine, did you?”

“Battery’s dead.”

“Sorry, that was my fault…” Peter broke into the conversation and sounded guilty. “I was playing a game on it.”

“No, it’s okay sweetie,” Tino turned back to his son to give him a reassuring smile. “We didn’t know this was going to happen.” He turned back to Berwald, who by now had a fine coating of snow on his shoulders.  “What should we do?”

“I’ll walk ahead an’ try to find a phone or gas station,” Berwald decided. He added at Tino’s worried expression, “Ya hafta stay here with Peter. Don’t want him walkin’ on the side of the road or in the snow.”

“Yeah, but-“ Tino began to protest.

“I’ll be fine. My legs are longer so I won’t be long,” Berwald cut him off.

“But I wanna go with you, Papa!” Peter called from the back seat, just as protesting as Tino was.

“No.” His voice was firm. “’S too dangerous. An’ it’s gettin’ colder. You stay here with Mama.”

“Papa-!”

“Peter, I said no.” Berwald looked his son in the eyes and gave him a stern look that quieted the little boy.

“Be careful,” Tino weakly said.

“I will. I’ll be back soon,” Berwald stooped down and leaned through the window to press a kiss to Tino’s lips. The Finn jumped a little at the sudden display of affection and was going to respond when his husband pulled away just as quickly. He nodded at him once before turning and beginning up the road. Tino heaved a sigh and rolled the window back up to keep the heat in, preparing for a long wait.

Tino had Peter get the blankets from the floor of the backseat that were normally kept for road trips and sudden trips to go out stargazing. He wrapped Peter in the quilt and zipped his coat up to keep him warm and fussed with the folds of the blanket some before he was satisfied. He then draped the other fleece blanket around his own shoulders and turned the car off.

“Mama, why can’t we leave the car on?” Peter asked, undoing his seatbelt so he could freely move about. “I wanna listen to the radio.”

“We don’t want to waste the battery or gas, Peter,” Tino explained. “Here, do you want a granola bar?”

“Yes!” The boy perked up.

“Okay, go into the back and get one,” Tino undid his own belt.

Peter made a noise of delight as he flipped over the backseat into the trunk area. “Can I have the peanut butter one?”

“Sure.”

“Mama, will the cream cheese and milk go bad?” He asked as he dug the box of granola bars out of the grocery bag.

“Let’s hope not.”

“Should we put them outside cause it’s colder?”

“No, they’ll be fine for now. Peter, don’t touch the milk or cream cheese.”

Peter stopped his hand above the bottle of milk and retracted his it. “Mama, do you want a granola bar too?”

“No, I’m fine for now,” Tino heaved a sigh and lightly closed his eyes.

“Mama, how long do you think Papa’s gonna be?” Peter asked as he hopped the seat again to sit down.

Tino sucked in a sharp breath and worried his lower lip. “…I’m not sure.”

“Mama, are we gonna hafta spend the night in the car?”

“I don’t know, Peter. Just… let’s have quiet time right now. You brought your DS right?”

“Yeah.”

“Play on your DS for a while.”

“Kay…” Peter opened his backpack, which he always brought with him in the car, and dug out his DS. He opened his granola bar and munched on it. The DS was flipped open and turned on and he began to play Super Mario Brothers.

Tino was playing a word game with Peter when Berwald returned two and a half hours later. He had the little boy up in his lap in the front seat who was now beginning to doze off against his shoulder. He squinted against the white wash of the snow at the tall figure striding back towards the car. Something large was being carried on one of his shoulders, and for the life of him Tino couldn’t figure out what it was.

He carefully shifted his legs, which were beginning to fall asleep, and leaned over to start the car again. At the movement and the sound of the ignition, Peter stirred and opened his eyes. Tino glanced down and smiled softly at his son. “Peter, Papa’s back.”

“Whub?” Peter gazed blearily up at his father, his expression dazed and still half-asleep. “Papa?”

“I need you to get back into your seat, honey,” Tino smoothed Peter’s hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “We’ll be home soon and then you can sleep in your own bed. Promise.” He helped the little boy scramble back into the back of the SUV.

Berwald tapped on the window, and now Tino could see the load on his shoulder was a new tire. He rolled down the window enough for them to speak. “A tire? Where did you get a tire?”

“Bought it,” Berwald replied. “I need ya to help put the groceries in back with Peter so I can get the jack.” He left the window and looped around to the back of the car, popping the hatchback open.

“Hi Papa,” Peter greeted, peeking over the back seat at his father. “Did you find what you were looking for? Can we go home soon?”

“Soon,” Berwald promised. “Can ya do Papa a favor? Take the food back with you?”

“Sure,” He reached to take the bags from Berwald and put them on the floor of the backseat.

Tino let himself out of the car and trudged through the snow, zipping his parka up and putting its hood up. “Where did you find a tire?” he tried asking again.

“There was a gas station that had a garage. I bought the tire.” Berwald replied as he pulled up the mat in the back to fetch the jack.

“And they didn’t come to help us why…?”

“Don’t have a tow. Told ‘em we’d be fine.”

Tino closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “That we’ll be fine.”

“Yeah. Tell Peter to get outta the car. I need to jack it up,” the Swede pulled the jack and went around to the popped tire. “Car needs to be off too.”

“Fine…” Tino let the exhaustion he felt leak into his voice. “Peter, honey, I need you to put your coat back on and your mittens and hat, okay?” he called as he opened the back door for Peter and then leaned in the passenger side to turn the car off.

“Can I help, Papa?” Peter asked as he hopped out into the snow.

“Don’t think you can help with this, Peter,” Berwald replied, shutting Peter’s door behind him.

“Why don’t you build us something in the snow, Peter?” Tino suggested as he rolled the new tire over. Peter didn’t reply but instead crouched on the ground, watching Berwald jack the car up.

It took twenty minutes and a lot of bitten back swears on the Swede’s end to get the ruined tire off the axel. He was afraid he had broken the jack for a moment and almost said the one curse word he was never, ever supposed to say around Peter. But luckily it wasn’t broken and the entire crisis was averted.

Tino hefted up the tire to Berwald when he was prompted and the new tire was wedged onto the axle. Putting the new nuts on went a lot quicker than taking them off.  Even so, the air was growing colder and the sky darkening as the sun set behind the clouds.

“P-Papa, Mama, I’m c-c-cold…” Peter broke the silence that was stringing out between them all. Tino looked back and felt his heart ache at the sight of his son. He was shivering and chattering his teeth as he hugged himself to keep warm.

“C’mere Peter,” Tino extended his arm and Peter shuffled over to tuck under his arm and against his side. “We’re almost done, promise.” He wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders and the both of them watched Berwald work.

“There.” Berwald scooted back and stood back up after another fifteen minutes or so. “All done.”

“And it’ll hold?” Tino asked, looking worriedly up at his husband.

“Mm,” he nodded in response. “Let’s go home.”

Tino nodded and picked up Peter, who was practically asleep on his feet. He buckled the little boy back into the car and picked the quilt up off the car floor and tucked it around him. “Sleep well, Peter.” He pressed a kiss to Peter’s forehead and shut the back door.

“Tino, do ya think ya can drive home?” Berwald asked Tino when he came around to the front of the car. “I’m pretty worn out from walkin’,” he looked guilty. “Sorry. ‘Bout the tire an’ ‘bout takin’ so long.”

Tino’s eyes widened with surprise before softening. “Of course, Berwald. You don’t even need to ask. I’m sure you’re freezing. And don’t be sorry. I don’t think either of us could have predicted the tire giving out.” He opened the passenger side for Berwald and went around the car, sliding in on the driver’s side.

“I dunno, ya seemed mad earlier,” Berwald shrugged as he buckled up.

“Mad? Why would I be mad? Did I seem mad?” Tino looked bewildered. He thought back and winced a little. Maybe he had been a little short with Berwald when he first got back. “…I’m sorry if I came off sounding mad. I wasn’t. I was actually really worried about you. You were gone for so long; I was scared something had happened to you.” The Finn started the engine and the heat roared back to life. He sighed with pleasure at the feeling.

Berwald blinked, studying Tino. If he had been mad earlier, he had certainly moved past it and wasn’t now. And he had worried about him? The notion made his heart flutter some. He and Tino had been married for years and had the license and rings to prove it, but he sometimes felt like he had somehow bullied him into the commitment. Little comments like that did wonders to put his uneasiness to rest.

Tino glanced over when Berwald didn’t say anything in return. The Swede was gazing intensely at him. Once upon a time the look would have shaken Tino to his core, but now he could pick out the tender light in Berwald’s blue eyes and the obvious love radiating from them. He shook his head, smiling a little and chuckled some.

“You worry too much,” he said to the unvoiced thoughts he knew were swirling around in his husband’s head. Tino reached over to gently cup Berwald’s cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth.  Berwald hesitated for a moment before making a pleased noise in the back of his throat and returning the kiss.

                Tino pulled back first and let his fingers linger on Berwald’s face for a moment before turning forward and maneuvering the car back onto the road. “You know I love you, right?” He asked, eyes not leaving the road and the snow swirling across it.

                “Yeah,” Berwald nodded once. “Love ya too, Tino.”

                The smile that was already on Tino’s face widened at that. “All right then. Now, let’s get home. I’ll make some hot chocolate for us and we can watch a movie.”

                “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

The snow fell thicker and thicker as the storm rolled into the area. The clear patch where the car had once been was soon completely covered over. By the end of the hour, the white blanketed the spot enough that it was impossible to tell that anyone had been there at all and with it the incident that occurred there was buried as well.

[pyrrhocorax]

These Friday Sessions

Alternate Title: Good friends, bad weeks, and hiding from campus infamy is a lot harder than previously expected when you're lugging around a cello. Based in zmeess' Uni!Au. Parings: Romantic Denmark/Belgium and Denmark/Norway, sibling/platonic Belarus/Norway, but the most important ship is Norway/ugly sweaters. You can either read below the cut or on AO3!

Human names: Norway - Halvard (“Halle”) Denmark - Henrik Belgium - Charlotte *************************** Most Friday afternoons, be it rain or shine, it isn't that difficult of a thing to find Halvard on campus. Towards the end of the week, a lot of the centermost places on campus become sparsely populated. Class is out and the majority of students and teachers alike just want to go home and forget about deadlines hanging over their heads like cobwebs—annoying, just out of reach, but transparent enough that one can heed them no mind. There are many ways to celebrate the end of the week. Some take a mid-afternoon nap, some get ready for a long night on the town, others relax quietly by themselves. But by chance you're on the campus green on a Friday afternoon, tucked between a modern-looking building and one with sooty bricks in desperate need cleaning, you might hear the soft notes of a cello. Halvard had started performing these audienceless concerts early in his first semester, sitting on cracked abandoned stairs that once lead to somewhere, but now only lead to a brick wall. There was always the option of playing in his room, but that risked his neighbors finding out and either reporting him for a sound violation (as he often times played incredibly loudly) or a stranger knocking on his door and asking him to play for some sort of occasion (birthdays, mainly). The latter prospect was much worse. On campus grounds, he could always flee if someone tried to approach him, lamenting that he had somewhere really urgent to be, and quickly squeezing between buildings and out of sight as if he was never there at all. Never had this been the case—for most of the people who did pass by were preoccupied with themselves and could care less about a man with questionable taste in sweaters—but it was always better to be safe then being constantly pestered into playing songs for your neighbor's girlfriend's brother's anniversary. It had happened once when he was younger and less adapt at talking himself out of situations. Never again. He also just happened to like being outside and found he was more creative that way. On these “Friday Sessions” as Natalia had started calling them, Halvard was essentially alone, and therefore, also at peace. ********* The Friday Sessions remained untainted for a long while. Halvard eventually confessed that this concert existed to a few of his closest friends—who had seen the cello case tucked away in a corner of his room and asked about it—but they respected his need for it being a private thing, not interrupting him if they decided to catch a few songs before going on with their daily life. That is, until, one Friday where the stars had aligned in all the wrong ways. The first of these problems was that his brother had willingly requested to hang out with him—a rare thing among this pair of siblings—something that Halvard was not going to turn down. The only problem was that the scheduled time of meeting was also Halvard's ideal time to play. The second of these problems was that Halvard was itching to create. He had foregone playing for a while. Two weeks ago, he had gotten sick—not bad enough to stop him in his tracks, but bad enough that he spent the entire weekend sniffling in bed studying because he lacked the energy to do much else. The week after that, he felt fine, but a very nasty storm blew in. He had thought about playing anyway, as he often did play in the rain if he was sheltered enough, but after a close lightning strike had struck—shaking the building he lived in so much that he, in a moment of surprise, spilled coffee all over himself—he decided against it. With all this pent up energy inside of him that needed an outlet, he needed to play for his own well-being. The third of these problems was that while the weather had been awful the past month, this particular Friday was the epitome of beautiful. It was the right temperature, with only a few clouds in the sky, and it just so happened that there were some unplanned electrical problems in many of the surrounding buildings, leaving class to be canceled. So you have Halvard, with this extreme itch to vent by way of playing music, on campus during a busier time of day, and a bunch of students who now have nothing to do for an hour or two but enjoy the good weather. “It's fine, right?” he thought to himself, fingers dashing quickly over strings during the chorus of his personal rendition of Toxic by Brittany Spears. “People haven't payed attention to me before, why would they start now?” He closed his eyes for way too long while playing and when he opened them, there was not only people crowded around him in hushed silence, but camera phones pointed at him too. He paused playing, thought for a moment, and quickly packed up before hurrying away as fast as he could. ********* Rumors spread quickly that weekend of a very talented cello player on campus. Videos and pictures were sent to friends, and then to friends of friends, until a sizable portion of the student body knew of him. More information started making its way through the woodwork. “omg I know this guy! He's in my class!” and “he plays there every friday, didn't u know? lol” were both comments on a blurry picture found on Charlotte's Facebook feed. “Look at you, being all famous, Halle,” Henrik says, passing Charlotte's phone back to her while biting into his sandwich. “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” Henrik, Halvard, and Charlotte often met for lunch on Mondays, in which their class schedules gave them two hours of free time to eat, chat, and generally enjoy each other's company. They often talked about their classes, or lamented about the beginning of the week, but today, the topic was entirely centered around Halvard. “I thought the worst thing that ever happened to you was when you ruined your favorite sweater by accidentally setting the sleeve on fire when you were trying to light a candle?” “Who told you about that?” “Natalia.” “Figures,” Halvard grunts. “Maybe it's not as bad as that, but...” “But you don't want to draw attention to yourself,” Charlotte nods, “I understand. Maybe wear sunglasses? Perhaps people won't recognize you.” “Yeah,” Henrik swallows after finishing chewing. “And we can follow you around from class to class, also wearing sunglasses, and pretend to be secret agents!” “Listen, pisslord,” Halvard points his fork at Henrik, “The idea here is to minimize attention, not increase it, and you two bozos following me around would just make it worse.” Still, Halvard lets the two of them pretend to fire guns while making “pew pew” noises. And he has to admit, he's amused by Charlotte saying “Get down, Mr. President!” in a gruff voice while Henrik leans over and mimics shielding Halvard from an oncoming attack. They care about him, and he does feel a bit better about the whole ordeal, even if there is some unnecessary silliness. “Oh, oh, oh! By the way,” Charlotte suddenly stops roleplaying, eyeing Halvard in a teasing way. “Just so you're aware, I heard a rumor that the campus newspaper wants to do a story about the mystery cello player! Lucky you, right?” “Fuck,” is all Halvard has to say about that matter, picking up and taking a long sip of Henrik's drink, slamming it down furiously before declaring he was going to class early and leaving. “He could've at least asked if he could have some,” Henrik mumbles, finishing off the little liquid that remains. Charlotte just laughs. ********* Halvard didn't know that journalism students were capable of climbing trees. He had severely underestimated their abilities. It was the following Friday and the buzz had mostly died down. A few people had tried to approach him, but after a few death-glares, the interest in him ceased. By Thursday, he was just a normal student, in normal classes, with normal assignments and a normal amount of school-related stress, and all was seemingly back to normal for Halvard. But given the strain of this week, Halvard felt the need to play again. In his last class of the week, he couldn't help himself from tapping musical notes with his left hand as he took class notes with his right. It was overcast, with some drizzling on and off. Instead of playing in his usual spot, he wandered a little. Eventually, he found a spot that he thought was secluded enough to play a little, with some stairs that worked well enough as a chair, and began. Until, about twenty minutes in, he heard a camera click. He immediately placed the cello and bow back into his case, pulling up the neck of his sweater over most of his head and mouth, and tried to find the culprit. Nobody was around. The camera clicked again. Above him. Hanging upside down from a tree limb was a young man with short black hair who looked oddly familiar, clicking buttons on a very professional looking camera to adjust the settings. They stared at each other in silence, with Halvard in awe that someone had not only managed to sneak past him, but also scale a tree, without him noticing. “You mind, like, shifting over to the left a little, and pulling your sweater down?” “Aren't you my brother's friend?” “Yeah. We hang out sometimes.” He snaps another photograph nonchalantly. “He's cool.” “Doesn't this go against the ethics of journalism,” Halvard sighs, voice muffled by the fabric in front of his face, “I don't want to be in the paper. I haven't consented to being the subject of an article, nor having my picture taken.” Another moment of prolonged eye contact ends as a gasp is heard to Halvard's right. A short girl with blonde bobbed hair had just turned the corner, clutching her camera tightly. She seems excited, and Halvard deduces that she's another journalist, bright-eyed and ready to score her first big story. “Can I interview you?” she asks politely, her voice soft. The rational part of Halvard decides that it's probably a good idea to just get this over with and explain to her and the rest of school paper that no, he doesn't want to be in the newspaper no matter how much he's bribed. The thought of having to negotiate himself out of this is going to be a pain, but it's better than ending up on the front page and bringing more attention to himself when he really, really just wants to be left alone. However, the primal instinct that exists within Halvard tells him flee. So, instead of responding to the girl's question like a normal human being, he says “Well, about that,” while flinging the cello case over his shoulder, pauses for a moment, and takes off running as fast as he can. The upside-down photographer snaps a blurry picture of Halvard's behind. ********* And that was the end of Halvard's brief run-in with unwanted campus infamy. The Friday Sessions resumed the following week without a hitch, but he asked Henrik and Charlotte to sit next to him under the excuse that he wanted opinions on a piece he had written himself. He wouldn't admit to anyone that their company was more for emotional support rather than musical critique, but it was. He did his piece, received supportive words, and then did a classical piece before moving into a song that the other two recognized, singing along to it softly while holding hands. The three of them took a musical break, but when the subject turned to Halvard's philosophy paper he had to write this weekend, the conversation quickly became Halvard debating about Kant's works aloud with himself while Henrik and Charlotte looked at him blankly, losing track of what exactly he was talking about ages ago (and they were pretty sure Halvard had gotten so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had forgotten that he was actually talking to other people). Honestly, they were much more enthralled with a figure slowly approaching him from behind, mocking him and his gestures perfectly. “So you see,” Halvard tilts his head in thought, his voice barely loud enough for anyone to hear him, “If I approach it like that, I thi—” “Philosophize THIS,” yells Natalia, hitting him gently atop the scalp in the same way siblings jest, before sitting down beside him with a black bundle in her arms. Halvard's eyes narrow and he gives her a skeptical, pouting look as he rubs his head. “Whatcha got there?” Henrik questions, pointing. “A present for the baby,” Natalia smirks in a taunting voice, handing it to Halvard. “You had a rough time last week and you're still grumpier than usual, so I secretly made you something.” Halvard unfurls it, takes one look at the front, and puts it on his sweaterless body without a second thought. “Humans are the worst animal,” he mutters, echoing the blue writing across the sweater's front, “Indeed they are, thank you. I'm going to become a cat instead.” “Hey, follow your dreams man,” and Henrik slaps him across the back, grinning. “You can become anything you want to. I believe in you.” “Yeah, I agree with Henrik. Change your major to feline transformation or witchcraft. Suits you better.” “Maybe I will, then.” And so, this Friday Session comes to a close, with a promise of many more to come. *************************** - Inspired by a person who would play bagpipes and walk around part of campus every Friday when I was going to school in Iowa. I never talked to them but I spent a lot of time sitting in the grass listening to them play because I thought it was neat and relaxing, that someone, without fail, would play the bagpipes if you were one of the twenty people passing through that part of campus during that time (I spent most of my Friday afternoons on campus walking around and exploring parts that were devoid of people and always had a good time discovering stuff like this). - I don't actually know if I've read Kant but he was the first philosopher who came to mind. - “Humans are the Worst Animal” is indeed a real sweater you can get off of zazzle that I very much want.