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. ]
[Yeah, he'd guessed it might ring a bell. But then, who hasn't lived that: wanting what you can't quite have. It'd kept Freddie on the hook for almost four years.
He touches his tongue to his lips, the sweetness there a reminder that he hasn't finished his drink - something remedied quickly, the emptied glass in his hand held out for a refill. It might seem for a minute that he's missed the question in John's tone, but he wouldn't have started this if there wasn't an answer.
He's never had someone's keys before. Never that kind of unrestricted access. But it wasn't keys he used to want: too solid a thing to ever be hoped for. He wanted something far smaller.]
[ it takes him a moment. a moment filled with taking that glass, tipping the bottle. but the pieces, obscure as they are, come at least in some small part together. they may not fit in their entirety, not just now, not with the night still filling up his head and the wine helping - he doesn't see the full picture so much as an out of focus snapshot, blurred on the way by. or something quite developed yet.
what he does see clearly enough is the part in the foreground. John sets the bottle down, Freddie's glass still in hand as he steps out and around, coming in to perch beside him. a shift and he's fished his own phone out of his pocket, fumbling with it one-handed until he's got the camera up. then it's a tilt of his head, beckoning Freddie closer. ]
Come on, then.
[ John's got a small collection of Freddies on his phone, Freddie a few Johns. if there's going to be a file, best start stockpiling cross-referenceable evidence.
[Perhaps it's not the response Freddie expected, or perhaps it's remarkable in ways entirely its own but it takes longer than it should for Freddie to respond - to move - abandoning his drink to push himself a little further along the counter and just a little further back John, the perfect position to lean into his shot.
His chin on John's shoulder, he reaches to guide his arm to a better angle with the expert touch of a practiced selfie taker.
Less poised, though, is the shot John actually gets, when his finger taps the screen. In the freeze frame Freddie's missed the camera completely, looking across at John with the corner of his mouth and the dip of a hollow in his cheek the evidence that he's smiling.]
[ he doesn't get to see it straight away. not until he's relaxed to open up their messaging window and find it to send Freddie's way as an addition to both their collections - and it has his stretched camera smile soften then branch out into a grin.
it's enough to prompt him into something, the whole of it coming out in one slightly sheepish but easy stream. ]
Sorry I got a bit intense earlier. That's how Sherlock— [ there's not a word that fits here anymore, so he doesn't try for one, moves over and on. ] He fell. Off the roof at Bart's.
[ it doesn't have to be huge. not all the time. and, apparently, not right now, when he's just captured the image of something more real and more immediate than falsehoods from years ago. he does laugh though, amicably if at his own expense, down at his feet. ]
Apparently that's still hanging around. Better luck next time, Ella.
[ his poor therapist really never did stand a chance with this particular lost cause ]
[The truth of most people is that they could pinpoint every moment in their history when they've ever been afraid, given the right stimulus. Nothing sticks in the mind like fear. It doesn't go. People just learn to store it further back in their minds until it almost feels forgotten about.
Until a word, or a place, or a face sends it spilling out again. Freddie would never be explicit about it - doesn't think his experiences match up to a man who's been to war - but he knows fear. And that it's not a place to dwell.]
Bloody idiot. [He could mean John or Sherlock, or himself, but his voice is warm. And maybe this is where he'd say sorry.
If he ever said sorry.] Probably shouldn't go out there on my own.
[It's an alternate offering. And something given in return for John's admission - perhaps part of what's needed to curb his inclination toward shitty life choices is to see how they effect someone else.]
[ a quirk at the corner of his mouth - the not quite thank you to Freddie's not quite sorry. the glance that goes with it is grateful too, and the rest is just, ] No. Probably not.
Nicer with company, anyway.
[ it's a sort of question, but not one that presses to be asked or answered enough that he gives voice to it: wine doesn't force itself into the hand, and he's never really known Freddie to be the sort to enjoy drinking in his own company to get drunk. maybe that part was an accident, or maybe it's just the sort of thing that happens when he slows down enough to create a space full of sketches stuck over walls. but if John can dump his shit on Freddie's doorstep in select circumstances with this warm a reception, the invitation is now extended, both here with this vague insinuation and very literally with a key pressed into the younger's back pocket, to do the same.
it's even welcome over the threshold.
then something in his face changes, some hitch of his mouth or tic around his eyes that leaves him looking comically close to baffled and he offers something else into the space in between them ]
... I'm not sure when I started wanting to kiss you all the time.
[ an observation. John Watson is perhaps, with weight off his chest and the first traces of wine meeting what's left of the whiskey in his gut, a little easier to come out with all kinds of things. ]
[Nicer with company. This rule is 50 percent of the way Freddie lives his life. Nicer with company, so long as it's not permitted to overstay its welcome. There have been, are, will be warm starlit nights where sprawling in the easy, temporary companionship of two-dozen people John would think of as barely old enough to babysit was, is, will be Freddie's choice. He's not good lonely, but that old routine's barely a veil to keep it out.
There will be nights when he pitches up at John's door, affecting airs to make his presence feel like a favour.
And, given the problem of choosing between familiar company (dangerous) and unfamiliar (hollow) sometimes there's only himself.
So tonight he didn't go to a party. Tomorrow he might. Save the new faces for a day when one he knows better preoccupies him less. All this won't be said, of course, it's a more thorough personal analysis than Freddie's comfortable either subjecting himself to or sharing.
But mostly, it won't be said because of what John says next. Because there's an easy answer to that and it comes with the old cocky smirk that's so much a part of Freddie's veneer - but also a part of him now: the boy he's taught himself to be.]
Me either.
[He steps down from the counter with more fluid grace than anyone part-of-the-way to drunk who's just fallen ankle deep in a roof has any right to manage. Steps down and turns and is pressing John to the counter before he pauses.]
Ages after most people, though. You've got a lot of catching up to do.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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He touches his tongue to his lips, the sweetness there a reminder that he hasn't finished his drink - something remedied quickly, the emptied glass in his hand held out for a refill. It might seem for a minute that he's missed the question in John's tone, but he wouldn't have started this if there wasn't an answer.
He's never had someone's keys before. Never that kind of unrestricted access. But it wasn't keys he used to want: too solid a thing to ever be hoped for. He wanted something far smaller.]
Photos can be very incriminating.
[He'd never been allowed.]
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what he does see clearly enough is the part in the foreground. John sets the bottle down, Freddie's glass still in hand as he steps out and around, coming in to perch beside him. a shift and he's fished his own phone out of his pocket, fumbling with it one-handed until he's got the camera up. then it's a tilt of his head, beckoning Freddie closer. ]
Come on, then.
[ John's got a small collection of Freddies on his phone, Freddie a few Johns. if there's going to be a file, best start stockpiling cross-referenceable evidence.
he's got nothing to hide. ]
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His chin on John's shoulder, he reaches to guide his arm to a better angle with the expert touch of a practiced selfie taker.
Less poised, though, is the shot John actually gets, when his finger taps the screen. In the freeze frame Freddie's missed the camera completely, looking across at John with the corner of his mouth and the dip of a hollow in his cheek the evidence that he's smiling.]
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it's enough to prompt him into something, the whole of it coming out in one slightly sheepish but easy stream. ]
Sorry I got a bit intense earlier. That's how Sherlock— [ there's not a word that fits here anymore, so he doesn't try for one, moves over and on. ] He fell. Off the roof at Bart's.
[ it doesn't have to be huge. not all the time. and, apparently, not right now, when he's just captured the image of something more real and more immediate than falsehoods from years ago. he does laugh though, amicably if at his own expense, down at his feet. ]
Apparently that's still hanging around. Better luck next time, Ella.
[ his poor therapist really never did stand a chance with this particular lost cause ]
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[The truth of most people is that they could pinpoint every moment in their history when they've ever been afraid, given the right stimulus. Nothing sticks in the mind like fear. It doesn't go. People just learn to store it further back in their minds until it almost feels forgotten about.
Until a word, or a place, or a face sends it spilling out again. Freddie would never be explicit about it - doesn't think his experiences match up to a man who's been to war - but he knows fear. And that it's not a place to dwell.]
Bloody idiot. [He could mean John or Sherlock, or himself, but his voice is warm. And maybe this is where he'd say sorry.
If he ever said sorry.] Probably shouldn't go out there on my own.
[It's an alternate offering. And something given in return for John's admission - perhaps part of what's needed to curb his inclination toward shitty life choices is to see how they effect someone else.]
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Nicer with company, anyway.
[ it's a sort of question, but not one that presses to be asked or answered enough that he gives voice to it: wine doesn't force itself into the hand, and he's never really known Freddie to be the sort to enjoy drinking in his own company to get drunk. maybe that part was an accident, or maybe it's just the sort of thing that happens when he slows down enough to create a space full of sketches stuck over walls. but if John can dump his shit on Freddie's doorstep in select circumstances with this warm a reception, the invitation is now extended, both here with this vague insinuation and very literally with a key pressed into the younger's back pocket, to do the same.
it's even welcome over the threshold.
then something in his face changes, some hitch of his mouth or tic around his eyes that leaves him looking comically close to baffled and he offers something else into the space in between them ]
... I'm not sure when I started wanting to kiss you all the time.
[ an observation. John Watson is perhaps, with weight off his chest and the first traces of wine meeting what's left of the whiskey in his gut, a little easier to come out with all kinds of things. ]
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There will be nights when he pitches up at John's door, affecting airs to make his presence feel like a favour.
And, given the problem of choosing between familiar company (dangerous) and unfamiliar (hollow) sometimes there's only himself.
So tonight he didn't go to a party. Tomorrow he might. Save the new faces for a day when one he knows better preoccupies him less. All this won't be said, of course, it's a more thorough personal analysis than Freddie's comfortable either subjecting himself to or sharing.
But mostly, it won't be said because of what John says next. Because there's an easy answer to that and it comes with the old cocky smirk that's so much a part of Freddie's veneer - but also a part of him now: the boy he's taught himself to be.]
Me either.
[He steps down from the counter with more fluid grace than anyone part-of-the-way to drunk who's just fallen ankle deep in a roof has any right to manage. Steps down and turns and is pressing John to the counter before he pauses.]
Ages after most people, though. You've got a lot of catching up to do.
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