ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[So I'll See You Around]
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I don't own APH.
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There will be many, many people whom you will meet only once in your lifetime and never see again. It isn't usually such a sad thing. Okay, so the Spaniard at the grocery store was really nice—but a nice guy isn't so rare that you'd miss him. Sure, he had a nice ass—but your brother would likely pass out if he ever heard you say that.
The point is, there isn't typically a sense of loss when these sorts of people leave. You tell them it was nice to meet them and that you'd like to see them again. That's when you turn around and note to yourself that you probably never will.
It's about 9 at night on a Friday, and you'd like nothing more than to be back in your dorm. The chairs are a bit too hard and your mattress sucks, but it's a kind of home and you really want to be there, sipping on tea or coffee—whichever one you feel like tonight.
November is quickly approaching, and while the leaves look nice committing mass suicide, it's too dark to see at this time of night. The asphalt glows the same shade of orange as the streetlights but it doesn't really help because you still can't make out any shapes more than ten metres away.
The last part of the equation—you have earbuds in, and instead of what you should perhaps be hearing, the soundtrack of some six year-old movie is taking over the auditory part of your senses.
So the next part isn't your fault at all.
"Fokk!"
A foreign accent, you think. In fact, you're thinking about the rather thick accent more than the fact that the asphalt is suddenly a lot closer to you than it used to be. You do notice, however, when the motion of your body jerks to a stop.
"Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," the nice accent apologizes.
You blink slowly in response and an automatic reply comes out. "That's okay, it was my fault." Except that it really wasn't.
"No, no," the man shakes his head, "It was mine." Ooh, I like this guy.
More of his features are visible now that the two of you are standing (oh, what a gentleman, he's helped you to your feet) under one of those aforementioned lights. He's kind of small, but you're much smaller; you barely go up to his forehead. He has silky smooth hair you'd die for, and it's so light it's practically silver. The exoticism is enough to almost make you swoon.
(You don't, of course.
...are those white gloves?)
"Are you alright?" his pretty face has changed to take on a slightly more concerned expression.
It takes you a couple tries to get the words out, but finally—"F-fine, I'm perfectly fine, thank you. Just fine." He doesn't look like he believes you, and frankly, you don't blame him. You curse your naturally soft voice. Did you really just say the word 'fine' three times?
But oh, those are nice gloves.
"I insist," he continues, "Let me take you out for a drink to make up for it. Do you like coffee?"
Nodding, you answer, "Coffee's—yes—um, good...um, yes, I do."
He gestures in the direction of the closest 24/7 café and you consider yourself very lucky that his English isn't good enough for him to be able to tell that you've made a total fool of yourself.
Let me take you out for a drink, he had said, but it didn't really sink in that he would be, you know, the one paying for it. No one's ever bought you a drink before, save your older brother. You (really hoped) didn't think it counted.
"What would you like?" he smiles at you. When you finally register his words, you tell him you take your coffee with plenty of sugar. He laughs and comments, "It suits you." Then he thankfully turns away to line up.
You practically fall on the nearest sofa and you don't even care about the attention you're probably bringing to yourself because the nice, foreign boy just implied that you're sweet.
Lost in your thoughts, you smell the lovely scent of coffee first and notice the cup that abruptly appears in front of you after. "Thank you," you say, blowing on your coffee. The steam obscures him from sight for just a second. You had never before realized how disappointed you could be in one second.
"So—what's your name?" you ask, because he hadn't been talking. It's another thing you're disappointed to notice.
"My name is Eiríkur." It may have been a trick of the light, but you could swear that he had blushed for a second when he'd revealed his name.
"That's a nice name," you smile softly, though you're mourning the fact that you'll probably never be able to pronounce it properly. "Mine is Lili."
He shrugs shyly, "Thank you. It's nice to meet you, Lili."
You wait for more of a response, but none comes. "Where are you from?" you prompt.
Eiríkur seems to stiffen a little. "I am from Iceland. Reykjavík."
You remember your brother saying something about a classmate straight from Iceland. It had been an interesting fact, but you didn't dwell on it for long. Well. You're certainly dwelling on it now.
"That. Is so cool."
"I...is it? You are European too, are you not?"
That wasn't quite the answer you had been expecting (what had you been expecting?) but you nod, "Yeah, from Liechtenstein. I came here a long time ago, though."
"I see."
Cue silence. Cue long, kind-of-awkward silence.
Maybe he doesn't want to talk to me, you muse to yourself. Maybe I'm not interesting enough. I'm—I'm probably totally dull. I mean, why would someone from Iceland be interested in hearing a little German-speaking girl babble? I should probably go home soon and do my homework. Oh gosh, he probably would rather be doing homework. Holy crap, I'm more boring than homework.
"I have to tell you something," he looks to the side in a way that you swear makes his hair gleam just right.
You're still contemplating the torture that your company must be. "Mm?"
"I do not...like speaking in English. My accent is very thick. So I do not speak much." He shrugs again, apologetically.
And life suddenly makes sense.
"But I love your accent!" you exclaim.
"...oh."
Okay, this awkward silence was your fault.
"Um, I should probably go home and finish my homework—" you say, at the same time Eiríkur blurts out, "Thank you."
And then he nods in understanding, "Oh yes, I have much work to do as well." Already you're regretting the decision to open your mouth. Somewhere inside your head, there is a Lili frantically shaking her head—your head?—and screaming something like, No I don't have work to do that was a lie to get out of an awkward situation please stay with me!
You're extremely glad that that Lili isn't the one talking.
Instead, you say, "Alright then, I guess...I'll see you around."
Something inside you dies just then. Those are the words you always say to or hear from someone right before you leave knowing you'll never meet the other person again. But you want to see Eiríkur again. And it's not just because of his amazing accent or very sexy gloves.
You like that he's kind of shy. You like the way he only smiles sometimes, because not only is his blank expression hot, but it makes his smiles all the more special. You like his brown jacket and you hope that someday it'll be draped around your shoulders.
And there's that smile. "I hope I do see you again, Lili."
The two of you walk outside slowly and stop just by the door. "Which way do you live?" Eiríkur asks. You point a small finger to the left, and he smiles again. "Me too."
Life is good.
He walks you home without saying much but you treasure every second. You have a hand in your pocket, clutching your phone. You know what you're going to do.
"I live this way," you nod at a sidewalk that branches from the one you're both standing on. "So..."
He seems to frown a little, but maybe it just looks that way because you want him to be sad that you're leaving. You take out your phone and hope it isn't sweaty from the way you've been holding it the entire walk. "Um, do you have a cellphone?"
There is another short pause in which he stares at the proffered phone and you chant 'please say yes,' in your mind.
"I do."
The Lili inside your head does a little cheer and a victory dance, and you beam even as the cold wind stings your cheeks red. You try not to look too happy as you watch him input his number.
"Text me sometime?" you ask.
"Yeah. I will."
You wave goodbye while Eiríkur oozes his foreigner charm and holds out a hand in farewell. You time it so that you're watching his back long enough to satisfy yourself, but not quite long enough to enter stalker-zone.
It's tempting to skip the rest of the way home singing, but you refrain from doing so. Just barely.
You'll meet a lot of people whom you'll never see again, especially in university. It's just the way life goes.
But who says you can't make sure you do meet someone again? Maybe, you'll see them twice. Maybe, there will be a third, a fourth, a fifth time—
You'd be lying if you said you weren't thinking of Eiríkur.
But, you laugh, Who cares?
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This story is based on something I realized today about many of the people I've met in university.
I did not meet a hot, foreign guy. (I wish.) But according to someone at my university, there is a student who came here to Canada straight from Reykjavík. And I think that's really cool.
(Liechtenstein may be denying her glove fetish and foreigner kink, but I am not.)
Oh my gosh, what? This isn't angst?
I can't believe it. I totally finished an IcelandLiechtenstein oneshot in one sitting. All from reading the pairing and going, I want to write this. This is unheard of. I wish I'd have this kind of motivation when I'm doing homework.
There is a community on LiveJournal for this pairing that has, as of now, six entries. lavaribbons, I wrote this fanfiction just for you! No, seriously. I did.
Translations:
Icelandic:
Fokk—fuck; borrowed from English, with milder connotation.