Something was off about Søren. Sigurd could tell from the very moment he set foot in their house, dragging his blazer languidly in hand behind him.
He took a sidelong glance at the jacket, frowning slightly when he noticed the way the fabric was crumpled in the Dane's loose grip, noting that it was he who had bought it. For quite a costly amount, too. Unimpressed, his gaze swept over the rest of his figure, taking in every small detail that reflected Søren's mood perfectly.
The blazer was only the first indicator, because Søren would've normally treated gifts from the Norwegian with more respect than that. That usual gleam in Søren's eyes had turned dull; a mere flicker of light in them was all that remained. There were darker specks of something visible on his white shirt, and one side was untucked from his trousers. His tie was crumpled and misplaced. The sight of his hair concerned the Norwegian too, because despite all his messiness, Søren prided himself in his hair, and even that was ruffled all over, unruly and scruffier than ever before. It was as if he'd just got out of bed. As Sigurd took in the sight, even more became apparent to him, and no matter how much effort the Dane put into that lopsided smile, Sigurd knew it was a facade. There was something hidden in there. Something was wrong.
For the time being, Sigurd decided he would play it dumb, turning over the corner of the page he was on in his book to save his space. Pressing it down, he shut the book firmly, dark eyes never once leaving the Dane's. The long, hard look the Norwegian offered was surely enough to let Søren know that there was an answer that Sigurd was looking for, anticipating.
...But he just continued smiling, standing there, uncharacteristically silent. He was waiting for Sigurd, too. Waiting for him to mention something, anything, to take away the discomfort of being stared at in that harsh way. Søren shifted slightly, waving his hand slightly at Sigurd's face, as if he was staring into space and had forgot Søren was standing there in front of him. That helped him a little - He felt more relaxed, because it was something he'd do on any regular day, too. And it must've been good enough, because it earned a scoff from the Norwegian.
"...I can see ya, thanks." Sigurd assured, blinking once. "Y'know yer a little late, Bro."
A 'little' late was a bit of an understatement, because it had been almost two hours since Søren had been due back from work. It was a reasonable question, though, and the only way Sigurd could make himself sound casual enough for it to be remotely believable. He just hoped he'd get an answer. Just something. He needed to know just how bad Søren was, and a reply would be more than enough to help him establish what sort of state his companion was in.
Said companion gave another small shuffle from where he stood, but hesitated to take any other actions. Heck, even his body language was the complete opposite of his usually loud, cheerful gestures. Sigurd's eyebrows lowered with apparent uncertainty.
"Yeah, I know." The black material of his jacket finally slipped through his fingers, the weight of it too much for his lax fingers to cope with any longer. Sigurd watched it fall, hitting the hard wood floor with a dull thud in a small crumpled pile. His head stayed in position, facing down towards the blazer, but his eyes gazed back up at Søren's face. Just that small movement, along with the drop of that blatantly fake smile had seemed to make the tired lines under Søren's eyes seem all the more prominent. He looked older, more exhausted than usual. If Søren had brought up the idea of retirement up again right there and then, Sigurd wouldn't have been surprised or in much disagreement to the musing. "Somethin' came up."
Sigurd gave a curt nod. "Fine. D'ya wanna tell me 'bout it?" It was a cheap shot at getting to the bottom of this issue, but it was an attempt all the same. His frown of disapproval was soon twisting into one of concern, the lack of enthusiasm shown by the Dane finally getting to him. Especially when Søren shook his head no, he did not want to talk about it with the Norwegian. Sigurd let out a small huff, glancing back down at the floor where the Dane stood. "How about ya take yer damn shoes off an' come over here."
He obeyed, but moved with a lot less speed than necessary to complete the minuscule task of removing his shoes. He padded over to the sofa in his socks, stood by Sigurd's side, as if waiting for the man's next command. The Norwegian pat the space beside him, and sure enough, Søren willed himself to accept the offer, slumping into the cushions.
After a couple moments, Sigurd glanced up at the clock. In the five minutes that had passed, Søren was yet to look him directly in the eye. It was clear he was avoiding confrontation, but had clearly not realised avoiding the Norwegian was having quite the opposite effect. If there was one thing about Søren that Sigurd knew, it was that the man couldn't tell a lie to save his life. He was hopeless at masking his true emotions, much to the contrary of Sigurd himself, who could wear a poker face in any given circumstance without a seconds hesitation. That wasn't to say it was a bad thing, of course - The very fact meant it was a lot easier for Sigurd to extract information from him in order to help him feel better - but it meant it was harder for Søren to keep things to himself. Harder to have some privacy.
Sigurd had picked up on the fact that Søren was blinking an awful lot more than the average person did, and it was then he realised the true slump his friend here had fallen into. With a heavy sigh, the Norwegian reached out a single arm. He let his hand rest lightly over Søren's shoulders, and he gave the man a small, comforting pat, then leaned close, bringing the Dane a little closer to him. He spoke in a gentle tone, uttering the two words he knew would reassure Søren in a soft drawl.
"It's okay."
...And that's when Søren caved, his head ducking down to meet his palms, chest shuddering in accordance to first his choking sob. It surprised Sigurd, because although it was not completely unheard of to have Søren cry, it was certainly uncommon, and nothing like this. He was really weeping, with his shoulders trembling violently up and down with every heaving breath. The Norwegian pulled him against his side with the outstretched arm he'd draped over the Dane's back, letting him tuck his head into the warmth of his chest.
It was quite painful for Sigurd to listen to. He had never been a fan of the way that Søren conveyed all of his emotions, because they were always big and bold, and hearing his partner wail out in the manner that he did made things feel all the more worse. The Dane nosed against his side again at that point, burying his face further into the crook of his arm, muffling those noises of uttermost distress.
"Shh..." Sigurd whispered quietly, lifting the arm that wasn't cradling Søren against him and letting the fingers drag (with some difficulty) through the thick blonde spikes of his hair. He knew Søren well enough to know fondling with his hair was the most effective way to soothe the man. Aside from these actions Sigurd did little else, and simply sat without moving, allowing Søren to desperately cling and grab at him, absently aware that a patch of his shirt was steadily growing damp underneath the weight of Søren's head.
He kept up this routine of hair petting and softly spoken hushes until he felt the heaving breaths fall into a slower, albeit still unsteady pace. His hand trailed along Søren's back, drawing light patterns into his skin, feeling him shiver underneath his touch, the grip he held on Sigurd's shirt tightening ever so slightly. And they stayed that way for what felt like hours, Søren curled up at Sigurd's side, reduced to sniffling every now and then after the support he'd been given had allowed him to let out the sobs and wails he'd held in for so long.
He shifted gently, and Sigurd flicked his eyes down at him. A bright red face peered back up, tears still visibly shining in his eyes in the dim lighting of the room. He sniffled pathetically a couple more times, before blubbering out a small "Thanks," and reaching up to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. "Sorry. Got y'shirt wet."
Sigurd merely dismissed his apology with a shake of the head before voicing a response and maintaining that same soft dynamic. "Whatever. Doesn't matter." He assured, using his hand to brush back some of the hair that had slumped forward into Søren's eyes. "As long as all that cryin' is out of the way now. You'll be alright?"
Søren smiled ever so slightly, nodding his head against the Norwegian's shoulder. He took in a few deep, trembling breaths of air, and it soothed him a little. Enough to make his hand stop shaking enough to bring it up against Sigurd's, and coax the man into holding it. Normally Sigurd would decline the affectionate display, but Søren was in a time of need, attention, and fawning over. And that meant Sigurd would deal with it without any protest.
Then they spent a few more minutes that way, too, occasionally taking turns to give their connected hands a gentle squeeze, letting the other know everything that they needed to just from the small gesture. Silence soon resumed its reign over the home, only disturbed by the soft breathing of the two nations coiled together on the sofa.
Søren was finally at ease for the first time that evening. The mere presence of his companion was enough to push away a thousand of his worries.