#pytmeddet

NÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ!!!!!!!!!!

‘True. Sigge’s straight and he knits me hundreds of things …’

‘Me.’

Magnus puffed out his chest. ‘No, in 10 minutes. Be there, or be square.’

‘Fight–? Voi– perkele!’ He didn’t expect this. But the message is clear and look, he might have responded with something similar to what the Dane’s just done. Except with a fist. Lightly. I promise.

Erik let Lars cling on him a minute longer before getting his hands between their bodies and pushing against the older man’s sternum - gently, but with growing pressure - until he was finally released from the hug. He then dusted off his arms where the Dane’s warmth lingered. The action was excessive and most definitely hurtful, he knew, but ever since he had left them, Erik couldn’t help but feel increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin, in this foreign land, and around all the people in his life. Every touch from his family felt like it burnt him, rubbed his skin raw, and it made him want to lash out at them thoughtlessly. He didn’t understand it, but something inside him screamed and cried for him to leave, to fly away and never return to the house that felt so empty and cold without his brother in it. He wanted to go back home, back to his own island up north.

He had been in the middle of a growth spurt the last few decades and could now look past Lars’ shoulder. Erik took this as a sign that he was ready, ready to leave, ready to be on his own, to be an independent nation. He had spent days in his room when his ever-present sickness kept him at bay, composing letters and reading up on national romantic literature that Jón had shared with him. Jón, who told him how his people waited for his return, how they dreamed of ruling themselves. Jón, who had given him letters and poems from his national romantics, all of them praising Iceland’s beauty and character. And every time Jón travelled back to Reykjavík, he took Erik’s letters to be handed to them and most importantly, to his capital personification who was also preparing for his return. It had been over 500 years since he’d last been home...

“It’s for my wall!” 

Peter glances over the picture, swiping through the last few blurrier ones, then back to the most recent one (the only picture in the batch which looked halfway presentable), and hands his phone over for Magnus to approve of.  

Arthur was surprised to say the least; he was expecting a laugh or two — he was often dabbed as an old geezer stuck in time. He was merely saying the notion as an attempt to believe it, but it had already left such a bitter, bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“Really? I thought it’s a common rhetoric for us to move on; or that’s what I heard. Let things go, they say… but it’s never that easy, isn’t it?” Head lowered, Arthur let out a few mirthless chuckles, contempt evident.

“Sometimes I wonder, is our long lifespan a blessing or a curse? Humans forgive and forget much faster than us, correct?” He had given some thoughts about it before, the life of a human, which would see everything in his lifetime coming to an end short of a century.