H's n't dr'nk.
The water laps tamely at the walls of the promenade of stone, and they walk together in silence for a while, until she asks him something.
"Bryggen," he replies evenly- that's the name of the harbor that hugs the waves, right where he found her that evening that feels like a lifetime ago. The place is the very same as they amble together, only that Norge feels he is slowly ceasing to be the same Norge that woke up cold and naked the night of the equinox. He can't truly say he knows why.
She looks at the water with longing, thinking she can get away with Norge not noticing the true nature of the glint in her eyes.
"I'm tired of the land," she announces, "It's dull. I'm going back."
"I thought you were a hat short for that," he says bitingly, but she doesn't make anything out of his voice. It's becoming usual. He doesn't really know why he bothers being sarcastic, when she never catches on.
"Yeah, it doesn't mean I can't try though. Maybe the legend isn't true at all," she adds with hope, as an afterthought.
He scoffs. "Freeze to death, be my guest."
She turns round to look at him, wildly, and he swallows something bitter. Her eyes search his face, desperately trying to tell what exactly he meant by that, not sure if she should feel hurt, or offended, or affronted, or all that together, and her eyebrows hunch together and she eventually chooses to scowl.
He never honestly meant to make her angry.
Well, he never thought she could get angry.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's almost sure he doesn't want her to be angry… at him… even if his better (ice-cold) judgement tells him she can go to hell for all he cares, and all that shows on his stoic face is the leftovers of his scorn.
He's not meant to offend her, but he's not apologizing either.
Her eyes narrow for a brief second, and her glare makes Norge's mouth taste bitter, and she wordlessly spins round and walks away.
And Norge, icy, stone-faced old Norge, feels, for probably the first time in his life, like the world's greatest idiot.
Alone, he wanders around until it becomes dark.
.
.
"Hey there, how's this awesome night treating you?"
"Shut up and give me something strong"
The barman eyes him quizzically, taking in his new customer, and offers an (unwanted) verdict in the form of a question.
"Lovers' quarrels?"
Norge looks at him, expressionless.
"I'll go get my alcohol elsewhere," he states dully, and begins to walk away.
"Hey wait, yo!" the barman calls, feigning concern, but Norge gives him a second chance . He seems vaguely familiar, thinks Norge, as he takes a seat on a high stool and indeed orders something strong (preferably sweet, too.) The guy is tall, lean, anywhere between his teens and his late thirties (the kind of people that don't age), and fervently repeats the chorus for some underground German band, with a voice too much too raspy, while he mixes colorful alcoholic components.
Norge is trying to think, but it grates on his nerves immensely that the guy has been singing that blasted same word for at least two minutes.
The barman eventually notices he is being death-glared at, and, a small smirk spreading on his lips like a disease, addresses the young, scowling man.
"What's up, man?" he asks, his actual voice not too different from his raspy, scratchy singing.
"Sing lower," Norge rudely replies, but the barman takes no offence.
"Psht, it's the most awesome song ever," he comments, adds the final touches to his conconction and passes it over to Norge. "Hope it's strong enough, you need it, bro." Again, he skillfully ignores a death-glare, "it's called Einsamkeit, you know. German, you see? It means loneliness. Which is absolutely your situation. Which is why you totally need to drink that" (he gestures towards the drink he's just stirred up) "before you drill a hole into my skull with your unawesome glaring."
Norge can't but deadpan as he tests the drink on his lips. He has to give it to the goddamned annoying man there, it is just what he needs. Not that he'd ever, ever confess it.
The dancing disco lights are giving him a headache already, and when the color scheme suddenly shifts, Norge catches a glimpse of the real colors of the place there, and the barman's hair shines silver for two seconds.
Oh, right. He knows where he knows the guy from.
The barman must have also had some sort of recognition-epiphany, because his eyes widen in mischief and he smirks at him.
"Oh, it's you… How did it go with the hot chick in the square?"
Norge knows he must glare at the man and stay silent. So he does.
So the guy (German, if the accent and the song give him away correctly) assumes things, like anyone would do when presented with such a scenario, and smiles and shakes his head.
"SO, you fucked up. So drink it away and try again tomorrow," he offers in his scratchy voice (Norge is glowering at him but he is oblivious), "Chicks dig that," he chit-chatters, he offers yet another piece of man-to-man advice that Norge fails to hear with practiced ease.
Next thing the young, stoic man knows, is that there is one generous jug of beer right before him.
"On the house," the barman says with a grin and a shrug, "One, because I'm that awesome, and two, because damn you need it like hell."
Norge shrugs back and takes a long drag.
.
It becomes late when, later, a hand clasps on his shoulder- the hand of a stranger that evidently lacks basic European interaction etiquette.
Norge has been spacing off for quite a while now, but through his glare he realizes they must have been talking about/to him at one point or another, because both the silver haired barman and the tanned foreigner this side of the bar are giving him expectant looks.
"Drunk yet?" the barman tactlessly asks, and is glared at in response.
As for the tanned foreigner, Norge makes it clear fast that there is a hand on his shoulder that shouldn't be there. The guy withdraws it in friendly gesture and keeps smiling at him with unwanted warmth, but there is also a note of uncertainty in his demeanor now. He is beginning to evidently doubt whatever the barman told him, and he asks,
"Are you sure he doesn't mind?"
The barman cackles. Norge is in the dark as to what they were talking about that concerned him, so he just assumes he won't like to know and keeps glaring in a rather vacant-threatening way.
"Who cares, Tony, he still needed my awesome help."
'Tony' looks quizzically at the brash barman, who is suddenly distracted with a customer and has to go inside in search for some bottle. With him out of sight, the tanned man turns to Norge with a friendly smile renewed, but a glint of mischief dances in his eyes.
"So… You go to Gilbert for love advice? Seriously, now. You must be reeeeeeeeeeeeally desperate."
Norge doesn't answer, and chooses to focus on how oddly clearly he pronounces the vowels.
"... you're not actually putting his nonesense into practice..." Tony asks, now appearing almost scared to go on, "... are you?"
Suddenly Norge is feeling distinctly unawesome.
Honestly.
Unawesome.
Why am I listening to this crap, Norge wonders, and the situation downs on him. He is sitting in a high stool in a bar, who knows what time in the night it is and he has drunk something colorful (and sweet and strong) and a damn gigantic jug of beer (at least), he is being lectured by a godforsaken barman and his touchy-feely hispanic friend, all the while treated as if he had issues in a love life he doesn't fucking have.
Seriously, what am I doing here?
He will do something wise, he thinks. He's still on time to make it.
He'll stand up and leave, wordlessly, and damn them deep if they think he's being rude.
And so he does.
.
…
…he ends up alone with a killing headache in his uncle's cozy house, having a miserable instant soup for dinner (peachy), miserable, with the stomach full of beer but still, unfortunately, grimly
sober.
The sound of the front door slamming slaughters the silence into uncomfortable stillness. Sloppy footsteps towards the kitchen tell Norge he is about to stop being alone, and his headache trebles, and the remains of the soup in the mug become distinctly insipid. He tells himself it is because he is tired and feeling unfabulous. Or whatever of the sort that less apathetic people feel in these cases, whatever, because he knows damn too well to his liking who walks like that, who makes those noises, but damn him. He isn't expecting anything, he reasons, he's just had a rough day. Nothing else.
She comes slouching into the room, barely shivering (it's polar outside) and looking at him like a wet dog. And wet she is for real, and she drips all over the floor.
"You're ruining the parquet," he states.
… her reaction is off, he notices, and all she does is quietly avert her eyes.
"I can't find it. I can't go back."
There is a puddle under her, already, a salt water puddle.
And Norge is nervous. He'll never admit it even to himself, but he's been nervous since he saw her walk away that afternoon. Since he heard the door open some seconds ago. He wishes he knew why.
He, or rather, a little voice inside him, wishes he knew what to say in this moment. He looks at her.
It's your fault for being reckless.
Suits you, you thick-headed moron.
He knows he can't be gentle with his words. She has that effect over him, and it is strange, seeing her so silent under the threshold begin to halfheartedly move towards a drawer and get an old towel (funny she knew her way around the place so well), eyes downcast, and mop the floor.
Annoyed by her sullenness and the dreadful situation, he forces himself to break the silence.
"You're an idiot."
She shrugs, wallowing in what Norge thinks is self pity.
"At least I know you'll always be honest with me, Norge," she says, locking eyes with him, and there is some strange hurt resignation there that the young man finds offending (at least), but he cannot wholeheartedly blame her. He's never showed her anything that is not sheer disinterest and coldness, and he of all people shouldn't be surprised.
But damn it sucks to see her disheartened like that, and a slight frown clouds his brow.
"You were in the sea," he states.
Yes, she answers. Take a bath, he says. Yeah, whatever, she breathes. Dropping the soggy old rag, she begins to walk to the bathroom.
"Wait, you great idiot."
She doesn't go far.
"Wha'?"
He looks away and awkwardly opens his arms.
A/N:
Cliffie! Don't hate me because I love you :)
I was going to wait more to post this, but damn it, I love this chapter. How the fuck did Spain wriggle his way into the story, I'll never know. (anything with Gilbert in is is dedicated to you, sis xD)
Gilbert and Antonio have divination powers (?)
And if you take into account that (this is one day split into chapters 5 and 6 and this one) Norge only ate breakfast, half a sandwich, a hell lotta alcohol and didn't finish a bowl of soup… I'm thinking we might be dealing with some eating disorders here xD
Send me Ideas or Love, either will do, but together they'll do better ;)