Picking Up Pieces II | Norway x Reader

Picking Up Pieces II | Lukas & Reader

It had been a few weeks, and Bondevik had proven himself to be an able-minded reporter and writer. Perhaps because of his quiet nature, he was very good at observing small details which the average journalist fresh-out-of-college usually missed. By the time February was halfway over, Mr. Kirkland had given the two of you a $350 raise.

It was roughly lunch time when a pair of smiling girls approached you holding coffee mugs. At first you hadn’t noticed them, since you were occupied with typing away about a scandal you had just uncovered that had cost local banks a lot of money. Lukas had presented the idea to you, and a thorough investigation involving calling up bank executives and meeting with rich men wearing suits had led to what would be a huge, money-grabbing front page article. You were almost finished with it, and were typing away at the conclusive paragraph when one of the girls leaned against the desk and picked up a strand of your hair, toying with it.

The long-haired brunette girl who was always amiably chatting away with the short-haired blonde was looking at you with mischievous green eyes. You remember being introduced to her a long time ago when a platinum-haired coworker with albinism, a self-proclaimed “beer king” who wrote articles about the quality of pubs throughout the city named Gilbert, hosted a Christmas party 5 months ago. You believed her name was Elizabeta.

    “That new guy seems pretty cute, doesn’t he, (f/n)?” The question took you by surprise, and you stopped typing away at your computer. You hadn’t really thought much about Lukas’s physical appearance.

    “I guess so. I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t usually look at guys like that,” you replied after a pause. It was the truth. Since you were 17 years old, you hadn’t really thought much about the opposite gender. You were always occupied with getting good grades, then paying the bills, and then keeping your job.

    “Really? Why not?” You knew the real answer to the question, and it hurt. You looked down for a moment, unable to meet the girl’s gaze.

“Hey, (f/n)! How are you doing today? Are you ready for your physics final?”

“(Y/n)! Guess what!

The AMC’s having a free movie night for anyone under the age of 18 this Saturday,

and they’re playing a marathon of Shrek! Wanna go see it?”

“Haha, that’s not how you play Pokémon, silly goose! Here, let me show you!”

“Hey? Are you okay? Who were those kids back there?

Total jerks, right? Don’t worry! I’ll protect you from them!

We can be friends, and then you’ll never have to

see them ever again!”

“So what do you want to be when you grow up? I wanna be a teacher!”

“Wow, I can’t believe we’re managing all these AP’s! We’ll

be out of college before we’ve started!”

“Hey, I was so excited ‘bout us being friends that

I forgot to tell you my name, by the way!

I am-”

“I’m just not interested, I guess. Work’s more important to me than finding a guy at this moment in time. I can always find a guy when I’m older, more financially stable, and not working as much.” It wasn't necessarily a lie, but it was not the full truth. Regardless, the two girls took it as an acceptable answer.

“Not interested? You’ll do it later? Come on, (f/n)! Lukas is totally into you! You should take the opportunity before he runs away from you!” Elizabeta waved her arms around for emphasis. The other girl -- you believe she was named Bella -- nodded in agreement. You sighed, spinning around in your desk chair, causing your hair to slip from Elizabeta’s grasp.

“He’s only interested in me professionally, and I am only interested in him professionally. End of story. Now do you mind leaving me alone so that I can return to my work?”

“Come on, (f/n)! Learn to live a little! You literally spend all day working! Even Mr. Kirkland is concerned about you! I overheard him talking to Alfred about it!" She did her best British accent when imitating Mr. Kirkland: "‘Hey, you know that one American lass?’

    “‘The one who’s always at her desk typing?’

    “‘Yeah, that one! Do you think I’m overworking her? I mean, she doesn’t even seem to eat lunch! That’s hardly normal.’

    “‘No, I just think that’s how she is, dude. Some Americans are like that. You should chill. Don’t worry too much about it.

    “‘Well, if I have a lawsuit on my hands because she collapses in her house from exhaustion, you’ll be the one fitting the bill!’”

    It surprised you that Mr. Kirkland was concerned about you. You didn’t usually eat breakfast or lunch, which was true, but you did eat at least some form of a dinner. Sometimes you were too tired or too lazy to make dinner, so you either went to bed and ate breakfast the next day or ordered pizza. You had never really thought that anyone cared that you weren’t eating 3 meals a day. You had assumed that the people in your lives who did care were long gone, and that the people in your professional environment didn’t really pay much mind to what you were doing so long as you got your work done.

    Elizabeta and Bella looked at you with their arms crossed, their faces squished together in a childish pout which made you seriously question how they had successfully managed to get hired by Mr. Kirkland. “So? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

    You blinked, realizing you were apparently expected to respond to a question which neither of them asked -- why you were working so much. “I really don’t see how this is an issue. I’m not starving myself, I just skip lunch to eat a bigger dinner. I’d rather work here than at home, so I have some downtime when I get there.”

    “Well, are you free Friday night at 7:30?” You would be free, since it was the last week of February. On the last weekend of every month, you were given a full weekend off to do whatever you wanted. You could technically only work from 8:00 until 5:00 every day, but you usually chose to work overtime until 7:00, reading papers by other journalist companies to keep yourself updated on the tides, finishing any leftover work other coworkers had yet to have completed, and escaping the traffic which came with the 5-o’clock rush.

    “I usually get home at 7:30.”

    “What if you leave at 5:00?”

    “I’d get home at around 5:40 to 6:00.”

    “So there you go! Don’t work overtime! Be free!”

    “Free to do what, exactly?”

    “Ah! You remember Gilbert -- the crazy “Prussian” guy, right? He’s hosting a party at his place to celebrate the end of the winter. Some weird family tradition he’s had since we were kids. Everyone here’s gonna go. Even Arthur and Alfred! You should go, too! It’ll be fun! If you ask Arthur if you can go, he’ll be glad to say yes!”

    “I’m not really sure about thi-”

    “Hello, Elizabeta and Bella. Ms. (l/n). Are you two discussing Gilbert’s party?” Arthur headed toward the three of you.

    “Yep!” Elizabeta and Bella replied in unison, while you simply nodded.

    “Hm, well, I’m actually going to be giving everyone the day off on the Friday it’s being held. I think we need a day for celebrating with the great work we’ve been putting in, and I need to get myself...and Alfred...ready for the party.” The Brit scowled when he mentioned the messy American. You could see why. He wouldn’t be very compliant with formal or even slightly-dressy attire, seeing as he usually entered the building wearing a McDonald’s t-shirt with some old burger stains on it and a pair of jeans. You were surprised that Arthur was going to be shouldering the responsibility of taking care of the man-child rather than letting him fend for himself, but they seemed to very close so you brushed it off.

    “Anyways, if I give the day off, I expect everyone to be in attendance unless there’s some extenuating circumstance. Just some food for thought. You should convince any coworkers who would be reluctant to go that it’ll be a pleasurable experience. There will be plenty of alcohol, -- Gilbert’s brother has some Italian friends who own some really good, aged wine -- and for those of you who cannot drink, Gilbert bought a soda machine a few years ago and has never left it empty ever since.

    “It’s really a lot of fun, actually. I think you’d enjoy it, Ms. (l/n). It’s mild enough that it’d be up your alley,” The Brit smiled politely. Oh boy, you thought. Now I can’t say no even if I want to.

    “Ah, alright. I suppose I’ll give it a try,” you responded with a polite smile of your own, though you were frowning on the inside, considering how much time you would need to spend at the party instead of curled up on your couch sifting through a good book or channel-surfing and binge-watching cop shows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had been a long time in general since you had fit yourself in women’s attire. Since you did not know how formal the event would be, you decided that you would prefer to be overdressed than underdressed, and on Friday, after Thursday’s announcement that there would be no work the next day, you had therefore headed into a local mall to purchase some makeup and a dress.

    Sifting through the many clothes racks with outlandishly expensive price tags, you stumbled upon a navy dress studded with electric blue gems which reminded you of his eyes. Quickly spinning around to look at a different dress, you thought of what a pity it was that such a beautiful dress had to be that color.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You woke up that cold November morning stiff and uncomfortable. Mind still numb and confused from the previous night’s sleep, you vaguely had the sense that something was wrong. You knew you were in the hospital, and that you had fallen asleep in a chair. Why were you in the hospital again…?

You opened your eyes, though you knew you didn’t want to see the answer to your question looking at you in the face. There were sheets, and there was a lump in the sheets. The lump wasn’t moving, though you really wished it was, because the people in white jackets standing over it, looking at you with sad eyes, were telling you even more than the absence of the beeping and the stillness in the air could.

One of the nurses smiled at you. You think she said something along the lines of “it will be okay,” but whatever she had said was lost in your furious denial of it not being okay. You did not cry, because you refused to accept it. You refused to accept that life had stacked its cards like this. He had promised he would be awake for you the next morning. Even when he was lying in that bed, delirious from the amount of medication he was on, about to go under, he had forced himself to smile that stupid smile at you again and tell you that it’d be okay.

You were still waiting for him to open his eyes. He didn’t do it in the hospital, even after you left. He didn’t do it when he was lying on top of that black box looking way older yet way younger than he should have in that black suit with the lilies in the hands that were neatly tucked against his chest. He didn’t do it when the box was gone and there was nothing but a stone in his memory.

The lawsuit which followed had your full coverage for the local town. His parents were furious that their only heir had been wiped out for such a stupid reason. Even though their reasons were wrong, their thinking was right. The whole thing was stupid. It was unbelievably, undeniably stupid.

    Mathias Kohler had been taken from the world too young. He was 17 and was going to turn 18 in 7 months. He used to always joke about how he would be the youngest senior to graduate, yet also the tallest, and in a way he was right. For most of high school he had been teetering toward awkward in his gangliness. He had long arms and long legs, and definitely exceeded 6 feet in height. He kind of looked like a stupid dandelion. His spiky blonde hair stuck out at all angles, but his goofy smile made him look even brighter than any absence of melanin in his hair could do. You used to tease him, calling him ‘Dandy Dane’ after his home country and the flower he resembled.

    It was unfortunate that your dandelion was blown away so soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gripping the dress tightly with one hand as painful memories came back to you, you lifted it from its sales rack and pondered it for a couple of moments. A few passing people gave you weird looks for the pain in your expression, but thought nothing of it and walked on. You know, this dress doesn’t just remind me of Mathias…

You thought about the blond man who supposedly held you in affection. Lukas was polite, certainly. He had offered to walk you to your car a couple of times and usually held the door open for you when you walked into the building together. You had taken this as professionalism rather than as romantic interest, however, as you had done exactly the same for him. It had honestly been so long that any male had taken an interest in you that you were skeptical of the girls’ theory. Had they not seen you treating him the same way he had treated you and assumed his “gentlemanly” gestures were for romantic reasons?

Regardless, you tossed your thoughts aside and decided to wear the dress, in spite of the pain it caused you. In a way, you felt guilty. You were so afraid of remembering Mathias that you couldn’t even wear something with the same eye color as his own. It had been a long time since you had allowed yourself to think of his name. It had been a long time since he had died.

The dress wasn’t particularly expensive, and nor was it particularly revealing. It was average -- fully-sleeved, moderate cleavage, just above the knee in length. You really didn’t want to impress anyone. You bought a matching pair of flats and headed out, proud for having spent under $200 shopping for clothes in such a capitalistic society. You also purchased some blue eye shadow and red lipstick to accent up your appearance. You figured you could splurge from your mostly-natural look for once and look a bit more presentable.

There was once a time when you would’ve said no to makeup, but once you got into the world of journalism you made the decision that looking your best actually was worth the effort. A lot of bosses had promoted you in-part because of your physical appearance. It wasn’t because you were good-looking, per-se, but rather because you made the extra step. Looking presentable did give you an advantage for job interviews and talking with clients, too. All-in-all, the advantages outweighed the disadvantages.

When you arrived at home, you took a quick shower and styled your hair. You felt a bit adventurous on that particular day, so you decided to curl it. You looked at the time. It was roughly 6:00. Gilbert would be providing food at the party, so you didn’t want to eat. Instead, you opted to slip inside of your dress and apply a light layer of the newly-purchased makeup. It made you look pretty. Not necessarily catching-everyone’s-eyes pretty, especially compared to your more feminine coworkers, but definitely decent enough. It was 6:15 by the time you put your flats on and slid into the black car you owned.

You had decided upon a black car for your 18th birthday. Your neighbor, who had inherited a bunch of cars from their late parents, offered to sell one of their 2012 model cars to you and your parents for only a couple thousand dollars, and you had decided to roll with the black one since it’d stay warmer in the winter. The car had carried you through for all of your half a year of college and the additional year and a half spent working without a college degree for various journalist companies, climbing the ranks rather quickly due to the years spent writing for the local paper even before you had wanted to pursue journalism as a career.

Gilbert’s house was only a couple of minutes away, and you were there by 6:40. When you knocked on the door, his brother politely welcomed you into your house, and you stood in the living room awkwardly for a while as more and more people filed in. By 7:20, everyone had arrived and was politely milling around the house, holding nice conversations.

    The party was surprisingly mellow, especially since Gilbert was hosting it, but you attributed it to his brother. Though you’d never caught the younger German’s name, you knew he was an intense perfectionist and neat-freak, and absolutely despised cleaning up after Gilbert’s “wilder” parties. You had helped him after the Christmas party, and it wasn’t pretty. Many of your co-workers were passed-out drunk, -- Mr. Kirkland included -- and there were a lot of overturned alcoholic beverages. Luckily, nothing had been destroyed.

    Your thoughts were interrupted when Bondevik approached you, holding some clear beverage in one hand, though you couldn’t tell whether it was alcoholic. He was wearing a suit and snowy-white gloves, with a blue dress shirt underneath. His eyes were dull and indifferent as ever, and his voice betrayed no interest. “I am surprised you are here,” he mentioned.

    You smiled, though it was a bit strained. “Yeah, I’m not a big party person, but Elizabeta, Bella, and Mr. Kirkland talked me into it.”

    “I had a similar experience,” Lukas replied. “I’m not used to parties. My half-brother used to have them a lot, and I always hated it.”

    “That’s kind of funny. My best friend was like that,” you replied, thinking of Mathias. It made your eyes go a bit wispy, so you decided to change the subject. “Do you know what time this party ends?”

    “Whenever Gilbert finally manages to sneak the Spanish and French boys that have been trying to break in all night in and they ruin it?” Lukas replied, though it was more of a question than a statement.

    “I’m surprised you noticed them. I’m pretty sure they’re named Antonio and Francis if I remember correctly, and you’re right about them wrecking the party. When you mix them with Gilbert, you get a really bad combination.”

    Lukas nodded, and the two of you settled into a comfortable silence, both leaning against the wall of the living room, watching the party-goers bounce around the room. Lukas swirling the liquid in his cup around a couple of times and took a few sips from the glass. You played with your hair and the hem of your dress a little bit, though it was absent-mindedly done rather than a nervous thing. By 9:00, the party was in full-swing, and a majority of the coworkers had gotten drunk. You knew the party was going to get bad pretty soon the second Mr. Kirkland stumbled out of the kitchen, face pink and eyes cloudy. A couple of people exchanged bemused glances.

    “Does he do this a lot?” Lukas asked.

    “Do what?”

    “Get himself drunk and then stumble around haphazardly like a gorilla?”

    “Hm, not usually, no. He can’t handle his liquor at all, though, so it’s nothing we haven’t seen.”

    “What about you? Lukas asked, curious. “Do you drink?”

    “Me? No.”

    “Are you under-aged?”

    “I am 21, but I never saw the need to drink, to be honest. I don’t really have much time to get hungover,” you replied.

    “Hm. A lot of the people here are European, but in America the drinking culture’s a lot different, so I can see why,” Lukas mumbled.

    “Why? What’s it like in Norway?” You asked, tilting your head.

    “Hm. Drink, sex, forget, repeat. I don’t really drink so much either, though,” Lukas replied, and you could tell that there was a hint of sheepishness in his voice. You really couldn’t imagine the shy, reserved man engaging in such activities, so you nodded. To give him credit, if you were describing American drinking culture to him, you’d probably be in a similar position.

    Your quiet conversation was stopped when Gilbert stood up on the table and called for everyone to gather in a circle in the living room. You tugged at Lukas’s sleeve and pointed toward the kitchen, silently suggesting that the two of you sneak out before the German could start one of his immature party games behind his brother’s back, but Alfred approached you two with a grin.

    “Hey, you two wallflowers! C’mon and join in!” You cringed. He was slightly-tipsy, but you knew he wasn’t drunk. He’d most likely just allowed himself a beer or two, since he’d probably be the designated driver between himself and Arthur. He wrapped one arm around you and the other around Lukas and dragged you two over to the living room table. You tried to go unnoticed and sat down Indian-style closer toward the back of the circle. Lukas did the same.

    “Sooooo, since Ludwig had something to do, I figured that in his absence we could play TRUTH OR DARE: SPIN THE BOTTLE EDITION!” The German on the table cheered, holding up an empty beer bottle, climbing down from the table, and then placing it down.

    Lukas whispered in your ear, “Are we seriously playing this game? I feel like we’re in middle school.” You smirked in amusement and nodded your agreement, then shifted your attention back to the German.

    “I will go first!” He yelled, spinning the bottle and instantly landing on the Frenchman who mysteriously managed to let himself in to the party unnoticed. I wonder where Gilbert’s brother is, you thought.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was close to midnight by now and a few of the party-goers had fallen asleep. Luckily, you and Lukas had managed to escape most of the heat of the truth-or-dare game by now. Gilbert had started a rather intense war with Antonio and Francis where they asked themselves rather explicit things or demanded each other to perform rather grotesque actions. A lot of foods which should have never been combined were mixed together on that day, and every room in the house was a total mess. Ludwig had still not returned from wherever he disappeared to, but you had, mostly-successfully, tried your best to unnoticeably prevent things from being broken.

    Eventually, Elizabeta got mad at Gilbert for the war he and his friends were having and also got involved, as did Bella, one of the Italian brothers who you had met at the last party named Lovino, Alfred, Arthur, and a few other coworkers who you recognized but couldn’t name.

    When you were younger, you used to stay up until past 2 in the morning on weekends, but since becoming an adult you had lost the ability, and you could feel your eyes getting very heavy. You were almost asleep when the bottle landed on you, causing you to jerk awake. There was silence for a moment, since most people playing the game were so caught up in their little war that they had forgotten you were there, and then Elizabeta, the one who had spun the bottle, broke the silence by asking, “Alright, (f/n)! Truth, dare, or shots?”

    Somewhere in the middle of the game an argument had been broken out over whether or not you could choose not to do something. In order to solve it, the German, Spaniard, and Frenchman had unanimously agreed that you could go for “shots” instead of opting for “truth” or “dare,” and drink a full bottle of beer. Everyone else had kind of just rolled with it. 

    Since you had never taken a drink before, you were quite sure your tolerance was low, so “shots” was out of the question -- doing something embarrassing while drunk in front of coworkers was not on your bucket list. That left you with truth or dare.

    The obvious question which you knew Elizabeta was going to ask really had no answer, as you hadn’t given it much thought. If you said “yes” you would be answering a question which you didn’t actually know the answer to and could potentially ruin your relationship with Bondevik by falsely proclaiming your love for him. If you answered “no” and he was interested in you, it would hurt him more than you wanted to. Thus, you opted to go with dare.

    Elizabeta tilted her head, thinking for a few minutes. You tried not to let the anticipation get to you. Finally, she said with a smirk, “I dare you to kiss Lukas.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

    It was a sweet summer day, and Mathias and you were laying down on a grassy hill by a park, watching the sunset. You had spent the day playing in the grass like little kids, jumping on top of one another, chasing each other through the bordering forest, and challenging each other to see who could go higher on the swings. You were both yawning and munching on some watermelon you had packed with you for the day. A peaceful, happy silence fell upon you two 15 year-olds, and it felt as though this summer before junior year, AP’s, and college could last forever and the two of you would be just fine with it.

“Say, (f/n)?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

The question made your mind go totally blank for a moment, and then you felt your face heating up. Mathias had never asked you that before! Where did it come from?

“Why do you want to know?” You asked, looking at him confusedly, silently begging for him to stop embarrassing you. You were internally groaning about how much he had just ruined the moment. If you confessed to him that you were 15 and had never been kissed before, you’d never hear the end of it!

“Well, I don’t want anyone to be kissing my best friend unless I know about it,” Mathias replied, wrapping an arm around you. You pouted.

“Who gives you the right to decide who I do or do not kiss?!” You demanded, a bit irritated that he was being so controlling.

“Why, I do, of course! I’m your best friend! I can’t just let some jerk-face creep come in, take you away from me, and then break your heart!” Mathias ranted, his eyes hardening with determination. “I’m the King, and I refuse to let anyone take my Queen away from me!”

You blinked, and your eyes softened. You started to hysterically laugh. Mathias looked at you with complete and utter confusion. After a moment, he began to laugh as well. When the two of you had stopped, he turned towards you, gazing into your eyes for a while. “So...do you promise me that you won’t kiss anyone until you tell me about it?” He asked, his eyes searching yours.

“Of course!” You replied with a smile. “As long as you promise me you’ll tell me who kisses you!”

Mathias smiled. “The King always lets his subjects know what’s happening in his land! Especially his Queen,” he added with a wink and a flirtatious facial expression. You swatted at his nose.

“Not funny, Dandy Dane!” You replied with a smile.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~