I own nothing in this chapter.

Insignificantly Important is Lukas' band? Is there nothing this man can't do?
Matthias scrolled down the page. Arthur Kirkland, vocalist, bass guitar; Alfred F Jones, drums; Vladimir Dragwyla, bass guitar and Lukas Bondevik, lead guitar.

He was using his favourite (and only) way of finding out about his classmate: the internet. Lukas was clearly not just athletic, a genius and drop-dead gorgeous (Matthias had given up on correcting himself- was there really any point anymore?), but also musical. Very musical, by the looks of things. For the first time in his life, Matthias felt a little... Inferior. For here was Lukas, a renowned skier with an A* in a subject he hadn't even taken for at least two years. Now, he could add 'musical genius' onto the ever-growing list. He, Matthias, in comparison was really quite... Unawesome, as Gilbert would say.
Damn that sexy Norwegian for making him feel stupid. (And there was another feeling there, one he couldn't quite decipher.)

How was it even possible to be that perfect?

.:.

"I'm home," Lukas called out to whoever was at home. Not a second later did he get a reply, and when he did, it was with a slight snarl on his part.

"Lukas, sweetie! How was your day?" The sickly sweet voice of his father's scheming girlfriend replied.

"Fine," He shuddered a little as the awful woman appeared in her doorway as he slouched off to his room. Surely, her dyed blonde hair and magenta lipstick was enough to tell any fool she was a slut? But, apparently, his father couldn't see that.

Shutting his door on Jemma and throwing his navy felt coat over the back of his chair, Lukas unpacked his bag onto his desk. There was no need for him to study, so he wasn't going to. But, he pondered, I ought to make it look like I'm trying. Slipping his MacBook out of his patriotic schoolbag (printed with the Norwegian flag- he was allowed to be patriotic, he was one of the country's most talented skiers, for Christ's sake), he realised that the way he was going, he would be completely out of practice once he returned home.

While Copenhagen wasn't exactly the Norwegian mountains, at the moment, any slopes would do. He opened up his computer and brought up Safari. As his homepage- his email account- loaded, he typed 'copenhagen skiing' into the browser. Drawing a breath, he tapped the enter key and hoped desperately that the ski slopes nearby weren't too awful. Of course, after the best of the best in Norway, Lukas wasn't expecting much, but he just pleaded with whoever was listening- Odin, Zeus, whatever- that the Danish resorts were half-decent.

He knew he was probably being dramatic and such, but come on, he didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. Anyone would be dramatic if their greatest talent- greatest passion- was being bottled up, with no way of proper release. Lukas had never appreciated his beloved black pistes so much as he did now, miles away from home.

When the results popped up not a moment later, he heaved a sigh of relief. As far as he could see, there was an indoor snow sports centre in very close proximity to the flat, and it wasn't as horribly small and basic as he had imagined. Sure, compared to Norway, it was just a patch of ice, but to Lukas' ski-deprived mind it was good enough. And a ski pass wouldn't empty his wallet, either.

He slammed the lid down on his MacBook. If he hurried, he could get a few hours in, getting used to the slopes. He threw his keys, wallet and a few other things into his bag, grabbed his coat once again and took his ski gear from his wardrobe, trying his best to refrain from stroking them.
"Am I going crazy? No. No, definitely not. I just really missed my skis." Lukas thought. Or, at least, he thought he thought.

"...keep telling yourself that, Lukas..."

"Ah, Emil, be a good little brother, and get out of my head, you arse."

"I wasn't in your head in the first place, idiot," Emil deadpanned from behind him. "I just got in from school."

"...So I said that all out loud without realising it?"

"Yep. Still denying your insanity?" The Icelandic teen asked flatly.

"Can I classify that as a rhetorical question?"

"If you must. I knew the answer, anyway."

Lukas turned around to face his younger brother leaning on his doorframe. "So, little brother, how was school?" He teased lightly.

"Don't call me that," Emil frowned.

"Whatever, little brother. Can you tell Father where I am?"

"Of course. See you later, Lukas."

"Thanks. Bye."

Their conversations were short, but that was simply because neither of them had any particular need to talk. They were similar in that way- fairly antisocial, yet both extremely talented to balance it out. They didn't need to make small talk when they could get the job done in under three sentences, leaving more time for skiing- or computing, in Emil's case. Of course, that wasn't to say that brotherly rivalry between the two wasn't in existence. It was just less common and less... Animated than most families. More sarcastic and sly than heated and angry.

Musing over their relationship, Lukas ruffled Emil's white-blonde hair that he knew his younger brother took so much time arranging and stalked out of the door with a smirk. God, he had missed skiing.

.:.

Matthew Williams worked at his local indoor snow sports centre for one reason only: the free pass that came with it. He had a passion for all things winter-related, the foremost of which was ice hockey (at which he himself could admit he excelled), closely followed by skiing. So, with the free access to the ski slopes and ice rink that came with his job, he was happy.

However, he did not enjoy the part of his job that involved being a receptionist. Teaching classes was fun, he liked working with kids, but speaking to all these stuck-up idiots was just annoying. Especially when they thought they owned the place with their self-proclaimed talent. That really got on Matthew's nerves.

So when a short, slim and obviously rich teen- judging by the ski gear tucked under one arm, NOT the expensive coat he was wearing, of course Matthew couldn't recognise brands at a glance, he wasn't that gay, of course not- he was expecting the worst. When said platinum blonde looked at Matthew properly and a flicker of recognition flashed over the skier's otherwise blank face, Matthew himself felt as if he knew this person. No, wait knew of. Who was he, though? And why did he seem to know him? Surely I would remember this person... But how does he know me? Seriously, how?

Then, about a nanosecond later, he realised. "Sacre merde, Lukas Bondevik?!" Matthew gasped in shock. The other's expression seemed to brighten a little.

"You recognise me?" Bondevik asked softly, a very slight accent playing with his words and a strange look of something almost like relief on his snowy white features.

"Of course I do! You're Norway's most talented young skier! M-mais... Pourquoi... Pourquoi es-tu ici?" Matthew stammered, slipping into French.

"I wouldn't say the most talented young skier. My family moved here a few weeks ago. Would you prefer French?" Lukas offered, apparently seeing Matthew's slight discomfort with Danish.

"Tu parle français?" Matthew asked, slightly shocked. How did someone like Lukas have time to learn French with the amount of skiing practice he probably did?

"Oui. Bien sur," The Norwegian responded.

"Mon dieu... Comment?"

"Que voulez-vous dire?" Lukas asked, clearly slightly confused.

"Desole, ça ne fait rien. Er, how may I help you, sir?" Matthew slipped back into Danish and regained his professional manner.

"I need a membership. One that'll last me a while, I think."

The two began to discuss Lukas' membership, Matthew advising the Norwegian and internally squealing at meeting one of the best skiers in Europe. And probably beyond. He was pretty well-known back in Canada, anyway. Just before he was about to hit the slopes like the amazing athlete Matthew idolised him for being, Lukas looked Matthew in the eye, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Hei... You wouldn't happen to know Alfred F Jones by any chance, would you?"

A/N

Okay, this chapter sucks... I'm sorry...

Vladimir Dragwyla= Romania, by the way.

Translations

French:

Sacre merde: Holy shit

M-mais... Pourquoi... Pourquoi es-tu ici?: B-but... Why... Why are you here?

Tu parle français?: You speak French?

Oui. Bien sur: Yes. Of course.

Mon dieu... Comment?: My God... How?

Que voulez-vous dire?: What do you mean?

Desole, ça ne fait rien: Sorry, it's nothing.

Norwegian

Hei: Hey