Norway: Lukas Bondevik is all you'll need to know for now~ Heads up, there may or not be some adult content coming up in the following chapters (I will add tags/warnings accordingly) (Also, I apologize for any anachronisms or inaccuracies OTL)
Flip. Flip. Flip.
"Four, five, six, seven…"
Slam. Clink. Clink. Smack. Clink.
"Huh,…. seven… dollars. And seventy cents. You made it by ten."
Clink. Smack. Clink. Clink. Slam.
"Yeah, you barely made it this time, kid," grumbled the tenant as he stood up from the seat and flicked some coins around in his palm. "Think you can catch up next week?"
"I…I have no guarantees," Emil replied quietly, trying to fondle with the strap of his bag as discreetly as possible.
The man looked up at Emil suspiciously before throwing his head back to let out a few hearty chuckles. "No need to be so worried about it, I'm sure you'll be able to come up with the cash. You've hardly been in for long these past few weeks—I figured a lil' kid like you'd be working hard."
Pulling out a drawer, the man tried to whistle old showtunes through his long, wiry mustache before closing his fist around a few spare coins. "Here, open your hand, Steel-son."
Emil tried not to cringe at the man's horrible pronunciation of his name as he stretched his palm out slowly.
"There, that's a little extra." The man pressed a few cold coins into Emil's palm with a grin. "Buy something nice for yourself; today's a good day, and you wouldn't want to waste this on a bad one."
Dropping the coins delicately into his bag, Emil nodded. "T-thank you," he enunciated, forcing himself to speak a bit louder.
"Anytime, Steel! Have a nice day!" The man waved him off, and Emil knew that this was the time to open the door and leave the building before his tenant changed his mind.
Upon hopping down the last step to the streets, Emil turned around and looked up at the building looming over him. Given, he had seen far taller structures in this area of New York, but in comparison to the small, wooden, hut-like homes that he had grown up in, these "tenements" seemed big enough to be the "castles" that Lukas would often describe to him as a child. Meanwhile, the other habitants seemed content with calling the buildings "dumbbells."
The young man bit his lip, suddenly reminded of what he was here for. Right. Lukas. He had come here six months ago to find his half-brother, and six months later he found himself rooming with the tall shadow of a Swedish man, a rather weary-eyed Bulgarian, and a very busy (and slightly suspicious) Italian on the tenth floor of a concrete eyesore. Progress had done him well.
And progress was the only word he heard on the streets of New York these days. Anything black, bulky, and capable of producing soot was hailed as progress. Anything that seemed capable of producing a fatal electric shock to an unsuspecting passerby was also progress. All in all, progress was a very confusing concept to Emil, or at least it was when those around him discussed it over coffee and petit fours every morning. As such, Emil often tried to ignore these shallow discussions in favor of finishing arbitrary, small-paying jobs that helped him keep up with the growing rent.
Emil looked into his messenger bag and sighed, counting out the coins left over from paying this week's rent and the gift from his tenant. He would have just enough to buy some additional grains and tomatoes (not that he particularly liked tomatoes; rather, he had heard better things about bribing than progress, and for now it seemed to prevent the cranky Italian in Emil's room from pushing Emil out the window), but not enough to finally buy the blood sausage and fish he had been looking forward to trying since he came here.
The seafood here wouldn't have been as fresh as the food he ate back at home, but over half a year was more than enough for him to forget how herring and cooked blood tasted like. Besides, Berwald was a reliable resource for finding Scandinavian delicacies in the endless labyrinth of New York City. If Berwald thought a store or stand sold delicious capers or soaked its herring in the perfect brine, Emil knew that he would enjoy it too.
For once, however, Emil wanted the chance to go out and buy these nice things for himself instead of constantly asking Berwald to save extra pieces for him to try. Berwald's cold stare was often lost in translation to Emil and, fellow Scandinavian or not, Emil would have preferred not to push those boundaries. Especially not when they had to share the same bed.
Perhaps, though, it would be better to save the money. Who knew what part of the country Lukas Bondevik had taken over by now? And who knew how much Emil would have to pay in process of getting to that part of the country? In any case, what the Icelandic boy was more concerned with was surviving New York City as is, and that in itself had proved be as difficult a challenge as tracking down Lukas was. So far, having barely enough money to even buy protein offered no assistance in the least.
It was at this point that Emil's stomach grumbled, signaling that Emil focus on matters at hand instead of matters out of reach. Emil sighed and pocketed the coins before anyone else had the chance to bump into him. Lukas would probably have to wait a bit longer—that is, if Emil even made it out of here in the first place.
And with that, Emil turned left and began weaving seamlessly through pedestrians in search of a pushcart or a vendor –just like the crowded metropolitan streets had taught him to do months before. The wind blew back Emil's hair in ribbons and his hurry made it easier for him to ignore any dust blowing in his face. Emil could have sworn that a couple people had called out some slurs as he elbowed past them, but Emil had the more pressing matter of an empty stomach to deal with before he could deal with empty minds.