[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.
[ and so he allows himself one, just the one, leaning in to press mouths and linger for only as long as he can before either of them moves to press in closer and then somehow finding it in him to pull back. reach his arm out along the counter and take Freddie's glass, steal a swallow.
because there's no catching up to do where this is concerned. he's not racing nameless faces to a checkpoint, he's kissing a young man who still clings in so many places to the life of a boy and to do that at John's age either smacks of unmoored hunger or, ages after most people, with time to learn and know and only then to start to want in earnest, something else.
it's dangerous, this. and if he were to think about it in any real detail, what he's doing to himself and to the both of them, it might be enough to slow him down. so he doesn't. his thoughts keep toward the immediate and rarely ever ahead, he asks as few questions of himself as he can and he meets Freddie Baxter's cocksure comebacks with a bright glint in his eye.
a hand up, fingertips pushing into the hair at the base of Freddie's skull. John's head tilts and he rests his mouth close, a request for another kiss. ]
[A request barely granted at first, beyond the lightest brush of Freddie's mouth to his. His eyes dip closed, dusty eyelashes vanishing pale against his cheek, then blink open again to refocus. For all else he might be, he pays attention: even acts of ignoring someone are considered and deliberate. But he watches John like he's trying to learn him. He brings his hands up to splay across the topography of his jawline like he's studying the pathways of his bone structure.
His eyes are still open as he leans into that kiss, claims it gently, by degrees. Sometimes what passes between them is enough to bruise. This is rarer and somehow just as intense. It builds, until Freddie's fingertips give way before they leave bruises and fist at John's collar instead. Until his lips are parted, eyes closed.
Until one hand strays and there's a sudden burst of light, like a crack opening in stormclouds. And Freddie pockets his phone again. He'll share that photo the same way John did, later.]
Well. [He'd sound almost still put-together as he breaks the kiss, if he weren't so breathless.] We have got all night.
[ John laughs with what's left of his breath as they separate for Freddie to speak, only belatedly processing that bright flash, the event behind it. his mouth curls and his eyes open to fall on Freddie's lips, his face, find traces of what he looks like after all that. it doesn't last over long - a push forward and guiding hands at Freddie's hips indicates his readiness to move. ]
And three bottles of wine.
[ best to get on with it if I'm to drink any more of this before I get too distracted ]
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no subject
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.
no subject
[ and so he allows himself one, just the one, leaning in to press mouths and linger for only as long as he can before either of them moves to press in closer and then somehow finding it in him to pull back. reach his arm out along the counter and take Freddie's glass, steal a swallow.
because there's no catching up to do where this is concerned. he's not racing nameless faces to a checkpoint, he's kissing a young man who still clings in so many places to the life of a boy and to do that at John's age either smacks of unmoored hunger or, ages after most people, with time to learn and know and only then to start to want in earnest, something else.
it's dangerous, this. and if he were to think about it in any real detail, what he's doing to himself and to the both of them, it might be enough to slow him down. so he doesn't. his thoughts keep toward the immediate and rarely ever ahead, he asks as few questions of himself as he can and he meets Freddie Baxter's cocksure comebacks with a bright glint in his eye.
a hand up, fingertips pushing into the hair at the base of Freddie's skull. John's head tilts and he rests his mouth close, a request for another kiss. ]
no subject
His eyes are still open as he leans into that kiss, claims it gently, by degrees. Sometimes what passes between them is enough to bruise. This is rarer and somehow just as intense. It builds, until Freddie's fingertips give way before they leave bruises and fist at John's collar instead. Until his lips are parted, eyes closed.
Until one hand strays and there's a sudden burst of light, like a crack opening in stormclouds. And Freddie pockets his phone again. He'll share that photo the same way John did, later.]
Well. [He'd sound almost still put-together as he breaks the kiss, if he weren't so breathless.] We have got all night.
no subject
And three bottles of wine.
[ best to get on with it if I'm to drink any more of this before I get too distracted ]