[ it's sharp, that first sign of Freddie ready to tear away from him or lash out. John stands with it. meets him non-combatively. all he needs is for Freddie to move, away from him or away for him he doesn't care, and when finally he does and John can turn and follow after until he's got a view of Freddie Baxter safe on more sturdy ground all the held tension coils and drops, drops fast and far.
John steps inside and keeps on going, past Freddie, through the attic to the top of the stairs where his feet pull him up short before he can try a descent, hand curled tight around the handrail and hunched over himself to catch back breath he hasn't lost. deep, silent drags of air, eyes scrunched closed against sight.
[It's awkward and... embarrassing, in it's way. Freddie's not used to witnessing such open displays of vulnerability: he avoids people who show it easily with just as much determination as he disguises it in himself. John's seen him broken, hurt, trapped, but rarely exposed.
So Freddie looks away. Back through the open door to the star-speckled night, biting down his lip as if the discomfort of this can be clamped down on, too.
But John's breath doesn't slow or grow shallow. White noise in the still room. And at some point - he's not sure when - Freddie crosses over to him. He finds himself standing at John's back, anyway, a hand rubbing over his shoulder, down his arm. Breathe.]
[ this isn't supposed to happen. not around Freddie, not around anyone. and it wouldn't be happening, ultimately, if he had any choice. if he could find a route back from the edge of too many never-sunk thoughts waiting only part-obscured in deeper water. he wants to be gone. to be as far away as he can be - but here he is, barely made it five metres, can't risk another step with legs weak enough to buckle at the knees.
he can hear the faint strains of a breathed chuckle, of his own remembered breathing ragged in his mind's ear. words that he knows but won't allow to form (G--d..e J..n—) rest waiting out of reach. and he's got to work, work hard to keep it all away. he can do this in his sleep. he can do this on his own in his bed, waking up in sweats with sobs on his breath in the early hours with nobody around to see the mess he adamantly denies he is. he can't do it here. so he doesn't move, can't move. listens to what could be a voice if he let it, listens to the echoes, fights them off.
listens, suddenly, to something else. to someone else. warm on his arm - warm, after, at his back.
being seen turns him rigid. decision, seconds later, turns him soft.
how long it takes he doesn't know, but eventually John's no longer clutching at a railing like it's the only thing keeping him whole. ]
[Like maybe that's the point of the comparison. He'll take the chance of a diversion while he pretends not to notice the way John's shoulders lift under his hands - he adds a second, fingers digging lightly into muscle, making the touch a solid and purposeful thing.
Of course he's curious. Afghanistan? There never seemed much in the way of heights in the flat desert landscapes on news reports. An older fear, then, or a newer one. It doesn't occur to Freddie to ask, but a part of him is waiting for this step out out John Watson's self-penned character to be explained.]
At least it could fly. I do know other people, by the way. Here.
[His hands slip loosely forward, tracing outlines hidden under clothes, half-way to an embrace without ever proclaiming itself as one.]
[ he's settling, easing under Freddie's touch. it helps that there's no question made of him. that they're not spinning out his lapse like a sample under a microscope. the subject eludes him, his own response a query in its own sort of way but not an insistent one: Freddie will make himself clear or he won't, John's bound to understand his meaning eventually.
he's aware that there's something to be said. some offering to be given. and that maybe he wants to make that offering, to not have it sitting in between them as a question never asked and never answered.
for now he rocks ever so slightly back on his heels, movement in place of grateful speech, into touch and closeness. ]
That's right. The door even locks, now, just to keep everyone out.
[His chin settles against John's shoulder (it's mildly pleasant to note how easily the near-match of their heights accommodates this: he remains unused to skewing slightly taller with other men). This close his words can be felt as well as heard, just a whisper of warmth at John's throat.]
I mean, you don't need to fuck yourself up to stop me fucking something up. Say no. In fact I didn't bloody ask so just don't say anything. I wasn't going to fall.
[ realistically, there's no knowing either way. but he does know that the risk wasn't as high as to warrant the severity of his response to it. he knows he didn't have to do what he did. that, one way or another, Freddie would probably have found his way around it.
John lets his eyes fall shut again - this time not to block anything out, just to better experience proximity. his head tilts just a little to the side, settling lightly against Freddie's. ]
It would've been worse if I didn't come.
[ for John, not Freddie. though he can't be certain that's true: he can't conceive of having been able to stay away. ]
It would have been better if you'd brought the drink I asked for.
[He's more sober than he'd like to be, just now. Not a hermit, but standing in a room with all the evidence that he's been spending more time in this flat than he's accustomed to, choosing new and strange priorities. One of them, perhaps, here of his own accord.]
And something to fix the roof.
[He tips his head back, pulling away just a fraction to examine the damage.]
There's tinfoil downstairs. If it needs something absorbent I've got tea bags and sanitary towels.
Pardon my priorities. [ John's head turns to cast Freddie a sideways look then, somewhat dubious. jumpers and the occasional crossword do not a roof-patching DIY expert make. ] I'm not a roof doctor. I don't know what it needs. I can go out for more wine though. If you'll drink it in here.
[ it's said in the interest of joking, but he's also very much not joking. ]
In here? [Freddie clarifies, narrowing the descriptor with a sweep of his hand.] Under the skylight?
[He abandons John, then, to examine it. It's safe now: Freddie's down from the roof and John's talked down from whatever panic had tossed him on its shores. The roof will be fine with some kind of temporary measure to stop it making the papers flutter on the walls, and to lessen the risk of waking up with an attic full of sodden papier mache.
Tomorrow, maybe he'll find someone who owes him enough of a favour to get a real skylight put in, in the first piece of home improvement the warehouse has seen since is inception.]
Yeah, get some drinks. I'll meet you back downstairs.
[ and that's fine, absolutely, he'll get to that right away, but John hasn't forgotten the changed room he's stalked through twice now without the chance to examine. so, free to turn and with Freddie otherwise occupied with the hole he's made, John does. doesn't move off his spot, but has a look at the shape of it: papers scattered with drawings, the space a good deal more populated than it was before with evidence of a pursuit of something that makes John smile.
he's not going to say anything, for now at least. Freddie's earlier hesitance about the attic hasn't passed him by and there's both a courtesy to return and an awareness that he doesn't want to tread all over fresh blooms. after a moment or two he nods to himself, still smiling. turns.
maybe one day he'll be invited up here on purpose. or at least allowed to stray. for now: drink. ]
There a key anywhere?
[ over his shoulder. he's not going to tempt fate with the lift again if he can help it. ]
[Used to be kept above the door frame - when the door was in its frame - but since Jem's moved in Freddie's taking precautions that weren't necessary for a life lived in the company of strangers. He wasn't going to worry who might walk in when half the time he'd brought them home.
It's different, now. He keeps a casual but not impartial eye on who he lets through the door.]
[ he finds the keys where he's told he'll find them and then heads off, out on a somewhat familiar path to the first place that'll sell him a bottle of wine or three - one white, one red, one rose, because as far as John's concerned he can swallow more or less anything that'll do the job but he has no idea on Freddie's preferences.
what he does too, standing in the entryway and fiddling with the key, is slip one from another bunch onto the ring.
the bottles touch down on the counter and John sets about hunting the kitchen for glasses, not bothering with hello. ]
[Freddie's tinfoil-and-duct taped the roof into a reasonable state. In the morning he'll run through his contact list for friends, and friends of friends who might know how to fix this for free.
Or he'll mention to Jem that the roof's likely to fall in, and watch as she does it.
He's getting off his knees in the kitchen when John comes back with half an off-licence in his arms.]
Bloody hell, have you invited friends?
[Still at an age where his wine preference is: alcoholic, Freddie's not about to be fussy about opening the lot. He's stopped, though, at the little metal keychain lying beside. It's easy to notice the difference between one key and two.
It clinks as he lifts it, caught on the tip of one finger.]
[ offered as he finally discovers the glasses, plucking out a couple and turning to set them down on the counter by the wine. he doesn't need to look to know what it is that Freddie's questioning, though he does give him a glance before turning his attention back to divvying out a couple of portions of drink. ]
One of them'll get you into mine.
[ as casual as you like. even if there's a certain determination to the way he still isn't looking up. ]
[He splays his fingers, lets the little metal loop slide down until the keys hit his palm. Watching John the way a hawk watches long grass for any tiny, giveaway movement.]
The roof's probably not falling in tonight. [Another flick of his wrist and he's holding out the keys on the flat of his hand - no need.] And if it does, you'll be here, so. We're all right.
It's not for tonight. [ a glance up, one that catches on Freddie's hawk-like stare and holds. it's not a trick, or a trap. it's just a key. and by God, Freddie better not kick up a fuss about it. this is something John doesn't know how to do elegantly. doesn't really know how to do at all.
there wouldn't be a fight so much as a fold, and it's just a key. a try, then, plain and simple for once, brows raised to implore: ] I want you to have it.
[Freddie's hand stays where it is, keys offered back so John can retract his mistake without embarrassment. It's probably less than a minute but feels infinitely longer before he wraps his fingers back across his palm, locking John's gift into his fist.
It's not something he really knows how to do either, and like anything strange and new there's a need to explore it - a fingertip pressing at a new wound to see whether it stings.]
Because of the roof. [It's a a question, a feeling out of things. Is this how you win an old argument, John.] Is this about 'my shitty choices'?
[It's not quite accusatory, although the possibility lurks there. He just needs to know: is this about wanting him around or wanting him to fuck up less. Is it a request or an instruction.]
[ he stands there poised, breath held, ready to have those keys placed back down on the counter in outright rejection— it doesn't happen, and he does his best not to let that lungful out in a sigh. the word choice pulls him up again, mouth tucking into a flat line and soft furrows forming between his eyebrows.
some things don't die, they just go to sleep for a while. one day, he'll be careful what he says in anger. one day in a few decades time, maybe, but one day.
a shake of his head— no. to both. to the roof, to the choices. it's nothing to do with either of those... well, it's a bit to do with both, but only insofar as those are facets of the whole. articulation takes a little longer, but not too much. ] I had your keys in my hand. It wasn't an opportunity to waste.
[He can't let too much time tick by with that said. Ever an expert at not asking the important things, he'll let the question of opportunity settle unanswered under his skin, strange, and strangely warming. Outwardly there's nothing but a shrug, eyebrows lifting as if to say this isn't entirely satisfying but will suffice.
The keys are pushed into his back pocket. He reaches to tilt one of the three bottles John's lined up.]
I suppose it'll keep me in hot showers. Red's a good way to get fucked.
[Not in the biblical sense, and this isn't a criticism. He goes to a drawer to retrieve a bottle opener and throws it underarm across to John, taking up a perch on the counter. Maybe the subject isn't closed, but here's a temporary stay.]
[ and that'll do, really, that'll do just fine. the opener goes caught, stabbed into cork and the liquid free to breathe moments later. he doesn't leave it there, no patience for that just now (it's not like he's bought anything pricey enough to warrant it anyway) and pours Freddie a glass, sliding it out for Freddie and pouring his own.
the first sip allows that aging sigh out at a better moment and John sinks into himself a little: not an effect of the alcohol, god knows he's been at it too long for a sip to do him any good, but the prospect of it. room to find ease. ] Not what I thought I'd be doing with my evening.
[ a twitch to his mouth and the raising of his eyeline along with his glass, seeking out a fellow custodian of his inside joke. ] Beats drinking alone.
[ which we'd both been busy doing, like a pair of idiots. ]
Edited (i have nothing but loathing) 2016-05-25 23:06 (UTC)
I was watching a natural phenomenon. [He knows he's too sober when that pronunciation passes largely unscathed] You're the one getting pissed with the cat.
[A natural phenomenon that has now passed, along with Freddie's own chance for a wish. He doesn't make them for himself, never has. Why admit to wanting something you might never have. Wine, and John in his kitchen groaning like a pensioner getting up from a chair (something Freddie shoots him an appropriately disdainful glance for) is enough. Better than drinking alone.
He splays his fingers round the rim of his glass, kicking a foot back against the counter. It's not the edge of a bar, but it's close. Half the glass downed, he sets it aside in favour of his phone.
I was drinking whiskey with the cat. Different. [ one or two's no problem. wouldn't have got his foot stuck in a roof on one or two, had roles been reversed.
John's going the rather more delicate route of slow, steady sips, not in any great hurry. not savouring it, exactly, but not in any rush either. besides, gives him something to occupy himself with as he eyes Freddie's endeavour and, looking past the phone, lifts a brow. ]
You making a scrapbook or something?
[ he's fairly certain most known pictures of him now exist on Freddie's phone. ]
[He is growing a small collection on his phone. Very small, as these things go: dwarfed by saved images of naked torsos (or more specific body parts) with no names attached.
Picture saved, he taps the phone against his chest, lower lip bitten down a moment.]
Have you ever been told you can't have something, and it's like... it's instantly become the thing you wanted most in the world?
[ —well, that gets a scoff. only a thousand times, to varying degrees with varying depths of intensity. ]
Yeah. [ the why? goes implied in the way he doesn't ask it, the watchfulness and waiting in him obscured only slightly by the liquid pulled into his mouth and the laughing furrow of his brow. ]
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John steps inside and keeps on going, past Freddie, through the attic to the top of the stairs where his feet pull him up short before he can try a descent, hand curled tight around the handrail and hunched over himself to catch back breath he hasn't lost. deep, silent drags of air, eyes scrunched closed against sight.
god. God.
come on. come on, John, he's fine. ]
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So Freddie looks away. Back through the open door to the star-speckled night, biting down his lip as if the discomfort of this can be clamped down on, too.
But John's breath doesn't slow or grow shallow. White noise in the still room. And at some point - he's not sure when - Freddie crosses over to him. He finds himself standing at John's back, anyway, a hand rubbing over his shoulder, down his arm. Breathe.]
You fucking idiot.
[Quiet, no venom, but truly meant.
His back presses to John's back.]
Some fucking swan.
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he can hear the faint strains of a breathed chuckle, of his own remembered breathing ragged in his mind's ear. words that he knows but won't allow to form (G--d..e J..n—) rest waiting out of reach. and he's got to work, work hard to keep it all away. he can do this in his sleep. he can do this on his own in his bed, waking up in sweats with sobs on his breath in the early hours with nobody around to see the mess he adamantly denies he is. he can't do it here. so he doesn't move, can't move. listens to what could be a voice if he let it, listens to the echoes, fights them off.
listens, suddenly, to something else. to someone else. warm on his arm - warm, after, at his back.
being seen turns him rigid. decision, seconds later, turns him soft.
how long it takes he doesn't know, but eventually John's no longer clutching at a railing like it's the only thing keeping him whole. ]
Swan in a cardi would be shit anyway.
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[Like maybe that's the point of the comparison. He'll take the chance of a diversion while he pretends not to notice the way John's shoulders lift under his hands - he adds a second, fingers digging lightly into muscle, making the touch a solid and purposeful thing.
Of course he's curious. Afghanistan? There never seemed much in the way of heights in the flat desert landscapes on news reports. An older fear, then, or a newer one. It doesn't occur to Freddie to ask, but a part of him is waiting for this step out out John Watson's self-penned character to be explained.]
At least it could fly. I do know other people, by the way. Here.
[His hands slip loosely forward, tracing outlines hidden under clothes, half-way to an embrace without ever proclaiming itself as one.]
Just so you know.
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[ he's settling, easing under Freddie's touch. it helps that there's no question made of him. that they're not spinning out his lapse like a sample under a microscope. the subject eludes him, his own response a query in its own sort of way but not an insistent one: Freddie will make himself clear or he won't, John's bound to understand his meaning eventually.
he's aware that there's something to be said. some offering to be given. and that maybe he wants to make that offering, to not have it sitting in between them as a question never asked and never answered.
for now he rocks ever so slightly back on his heels, movement in place of grateful speech, into touch and closeness. ]
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[His chin settles against John's shoulder (it's mildly pleasant to note how easily the near-match of their heights accommodates this: he remains unused to skewing slightly taller with other men). This close his words can be felt as well as heard, just a whisper of warmth at John's throat.]
I mean, you don't need to fuck yourself up to stop me fucking something up. Say no. In fact I didn't bloody ask so just don't say anything. I wasn't going to fall.
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[ realistically, there's no knowing either way. but he does know that the risk wasn't as high as to warrant the severity of his response to it. he knows he didn't have to do what he did. that, one way or another, Freddie would probably have found his way around it.
John lets his eyes fall shut again - this time not to block anything out, just to better experience proximity. his head tilts just a little to the side, settling lightly against Freddie's. ]
It would've been worse if I didn't come.
[ for John, not Freddie. though he can't be certain that's true: he can't conceive of having been able to stay away. ]
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[He's more sober than he'd like to be, just now. Not a hermit, but standing in a room with all the evidence that he's been spending more time in this flat than he's accustomed to, choosing new and strange priorities. One of them, perhaps, here of his own accord.]
And something to fix the roof.
[He tips his head back, pulling away just a fraction to examine the damage.]
There's tinfoil downstairs. If it needs something absorbent I've got tea bags and sanitary towels.
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Pardon my priorities. [ John's head turns to cast Freddie a sideways look then, somewhat dubious. jumpers and the occasional crossword do not a roof-patching DIY expert make. ] I'm not a roof doctor. I don't know what it needs. I can go out for more wine though. If you'll drink it in here.
[ it's said in the interest of joking, but he's also very much not joking. ]
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[He abandons John, then, to examine it. It's safe now: Freddie's down from the roof and John's talked down from whatever panic had tossed him on its shores. The roof will be fine with some kind of temporary measure to stop it making the papers flutter on the walls, and to lessen the risk of waking up with an attic full of sodden papier mache.
Tomorrow, maybe he'll find someone who owes him enough of a favour to get a real skylight put in, in the first piece of home improvement the warehouse has seen since is inception.]
Yeah, get some drinks. I'll meet you back downstairs.
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he's not going to say anything, for now at least. Freddie's earlier hesitance about the attic hasn't passed him by and there's both a courtesy to return and an awareness that he doesn't want to tread all over fresh blooms. after a moment or two he nods to himself, still smiling. turns.
maybe one day he'll be invited up here on purpose. or at least allowed to stray. for now: drink. ]
There a key anywhere?
[ over his shoulder. he's not going to tempt fate with the lift again if he can help it. ]
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[Used to be kept above the door frame - when the door was in its frame - but since Jem's moved in Freddie's taking precautions that weren't necessary for a life lived in the company of strangers. He wasn't going to worry who might walk in when half the time he'd brought them home.
It's different, now. He keeps a casual but not impartial eye on who he lets through the door.]
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what he does too, standing in the entryway and fiddling with the key, is slip one from another bunch onto the ring.
the bottles touch down on the counter and John sets about hunting the kitchen for glasses, not bothering with hello. ]
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Or he'll mention to Jem that the roof's likely to fall in, and watch as she does it.
He's getting off his knees in the kitchen when John comes back with half an off-licence in his arms.]
Bloody hell, have you invited friends?
[Still at an age where his wine preference is: alcoholic, Freddie's not about to be fussy about opening the lot. He's stopped, though, at the little metal keychain lying beside. It's easy to notice the difference between one key and two.
It clinks as he lifts it, caught on the tip of one finger.]
What's this?
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[ offered as he finally discovers the glasses, plucking out a couple and turning to set them down on the counter by the wine. he doesn't need to look to know what it is that Freddie's questioning, though he does give him a glance before turning his attention back to divvying out a couple of portions of drink. ]
One of them'll get you into mine.
[ as casual as you like. even if there's a certain determination to the way he still isn't looking up. ]
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The roof's probably not falling in tonight. [Another flick of his wrist and he's holding out the keys on the flat of his hand - no need.] And if it does, you'll be here, so. We're all right.
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there wouldn't be a fight so much as a fold, and it's just a key. a try, then, plain and simple for once, brows raised to implore: ] I want you to have it.
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It's not something he really knows how to do either, and like anything strange and new there's a need to explore it - a fingertip pressing at a new wound to see whether it stings.]
Because of the roof. [It's a a question, a feeling out of things. Is this how you win an old argument, John.] Is this about 'my shitty choices'?
[It's not quite accusatory, although the possibility lurks there. He just needs to know: is this about wanting him around or wanting him to fuck up less. Is it a request or an instruction.]
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some things don't die, they just go to sleep for a while. one day, he'll be careful what he says in anger. one day in a few decades time, maybe, but one day.
a shake of his head— no. to both. to the roof, to the choices. it's nothing to do with either of those... well, it's a bit to do with both, but only insofar as those are facets of the whole. articulation takes a little longer, but not too much. ] I had your keys in my hand. It wasn't an opportunity to waste.
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The keys are pushed into his back pocket. He reaches to tilt one of the three bottles John's lined up.]
I suppose it'll keep me in hot showers. Red's a good way to get fucked.
[Not in the biblical sense, and this isn't a criticism. He goes to a drawer to retrieve a bottle opener and throws it underarm across to John, taking up a perch on the counter. Maybe the subject isn't closed, but here's a temporary stay.]
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the first sip allows that aging sigh out at a better moment and John sinks into himself a little: not an effect of the alcohol, god knows he's been at it too long for a sip to do him any good, but the prospect of it. room to find ease. ] Not what I thought I'd be doing with my evening.
[ a twitch to his mouth and the raising of his eyeline along with his glass, seeking out a fellow custodian of his inside joke. ] Beats drinking alone.
[ which we'd both been busy doing, like a pair of idiots. ]
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[A natural phenomenon that has now passed, along with Freddie's own chance for a wish. He doesn't make them for himself, never has. Why admit to wanting something you might never have. Wine, and John in his kitchen groaning like a pensioner getting up from a chair (something Freddie shoots him an appropriately disdainful glance for) is enough. Better than drinking alone.
He splays his fingers round the rim of his glass, kicking a foot back against the counter. It's not the edge of a bar, but it's close. Half the glass downed, he sets it aside in favour of his phone.
Framing John up, he snaps a photo.]
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John's going the rather more delicate route of slow, steady sips, not in any great hurry. not savouring it, exactly, but not in any rush either. besides, gives him something to occupy himself with as he eyes Freddie's endeavour and, looking past the phone, lifts a brow. ]
You making a scrapbook or something?
[ he's fairly certain most known pictures of him now exist on Freddie's phone. ]
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[He is growing a small collection on his phone. Very small, as these things go: dwarfed by saved images of naked torsos (or more specific body parts) with no names attached.
Picture saved, he taps the phone against his chest, lower lip bitten down a moment.]
Have you ever been told you can't have something, and it's like... it's instantly become the thing you wanted most in the world?
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Yeah. [ the why? goes implied in the way he doesn't ask it, the watchfulness and waiting in him obscured only slightly by the liquid pulled into his mouth and the laughing furrow of his brow. ]
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