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Summary
When the guitarist turned around, he came face to face with Pelle standing in the doorway. The blond gripped the sleeve of his coat tightly, as if it were an anchor. An almost childish gesture, but loaded with importance.
“What the fuck do you want, Pelle,” Øystein snapped, still boiling with rage.
Pelle took a deep breath, trying to form words. Norwegian was still a minefield for him.
“My pads ran out… could you buy more for me,” the blond said softly, the Norwegian in his mouth sounding strange.
A heavy silence followed, born from a lack of full understanding. Øystein frowned, genuinely lost.
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