[Freddie walks John just as far as the door, as expected, before curling his wrist in a flourish that indicates he can open it and go.
Then, he follows him outside. Because yes, actually, Freddie absolutely plans to walk to you your door, John. It might not be the straightest of lines, but walking is still a thing that he can do. And there's another thing he can do, too. The purpose of this exercise, perhaps.
As the chill of the October night bites at his face, he rubs his palms down his sides for warmth - then holds one out for John to take.]
Come on, then. Your place or the all-night rave up the road.
[ the offering is different to the idle attempt at earlier touch. John has the time to clock, to think, to rationalise. to know that he's got choices, and to work out that there's no real harm in making the most profitable one.
it's a very perfunctory acceptance. palm to palm, fingers wrapped flat around the back of a hand, thumb loosely hooked. but it's an acceptance all the same, an active seizing of opportunity. he hasn't stopped for it, either. may have slowed down, tempo stalled at the sudden turning of cogs made considerably less vigorous for the shots taking the punishing razor edge off his thought processes, but he keeps on walking, attention on the path ahead, as if there's nothing at all to holding hands and walking down the street.
which, for most people, there probably isn't.
it's good, this pretending it doesn't feel strange shtick. Freddie was right. right now, he almost believes it himself. ]
We'll see where our feet take us.
[ their feet will be taking them in the direction of John's place, courtesy of the light guiding steer on their joined hands if they start to stray from the his intended route ]
[Profitable is exactly the quality that Freddie intends John to focus on. He needs to touch someone or he'll be here until he's dust. Might as well be Freddie. Just his hand. He's touched him up in more intimate places for stranger reasons, after all. And while Freddie had expected some kind of protest or query, he doesn't push the fact that there's not.
Ignoring it's fine. He keeps his fingers carefully threaded with John's and - for once - lets him lead. Though, he's guessed it won't be the rave.
Letting his feet take him places is most of how Freddie lives. And the night's nice, if cold. John's walk home cuts through green spaces, where the street light's cut off by the trees, and the sudden closeness of it makes Freddie feel deeper in winter already.]
[ if there's one thing John's noticed about Eudio, it's that it doesn't skimp out on its celebrations. any excuse. there are enough parties to get him accepting dancing lessons from Sherlock. there's no chance they'd miss out on an opportunity like Christmas.
it gets him to thinking though, quiet as it is out here. the question is just out of left field enough to drag him off with it, and before he knows it he's talking again. ]
My old landlady, Mrs Hudson. She loved Christmas. We'd make an effort, spruce the flat up a bit - lights around the fireplace, bit of tinsel around the doorways. Every other day or so in the run up she'd bring up some mince pies, we'd ply her with a glass of something fancy, and we'd all sit an chat for a bit. She said it was the only time she could get us to sit still long enough to pay her any attention.
[ it's spoken with nostalgia, warm: he misses her. another string he cut. loose smile on his mouth, half an apology for the unexpected outpouring and half the remnants of lingering fondness at the memory, John casts a glance Freddie's way and does his verbal best to tug things back on track. ] Fan of Christmas?
[ some people aren't, some people love it. he's curious to know whether Freddie's asking out of hope or a hope it might've been left at home ]
[Freddie's not looking when John's focus drifts back his way. His own attention's cast downwards, examining that unacknowledged point where their fingers lock. It's nothing meaningful, just somewhere else to look other than into whatever private expression John might have harboured as he spoke.
Not that he'd shy away from that, ordinarily. His attention can be unflinching enough to make the other person blink first but. There was enough given away in John's voice. The dip of Freddie's chin keeps his own thoughts shadowed, though he pulls in a quick breath and lifts a shrugged shoulder at the question.]
Yeah, I suppose. Used to be. Parts of it anyway. The music can go to fuck after about the second week of November, I had enough of carols in the school choir - don't.
[Don't you fucking laugh John Watson, yes he was a chorister in the days before he developed a dismissive attitude to anything resembling organised 'joining in'.]
So not... all that shit. [It's not quite as fondly nostalgic as John's reminiscences, clearly. And there's no personal memory offered. Christmas was a conflicted thing in the Baxter household, and has been more so in the years he's avoided anything resembling home comforts. But he misses it, sometimes. Even if he's not so much missing what was, as what was supposed to be.
He draws in another breath, a pause for thought.] I like the build up. Lights in the dark and that. I was just thinking they could light up these trees.
[ he's about to lauggh at the first musical comment (agreed, wholeheartedly, the music absolutely can go to fuck after about the second week of November) but it's very quickly subdued, replaced by the very purposeful elevation of eyebrows up in search of his own hairline at school choir.
he doesn't, as instructed. but that doesn't mean he can't tease.
it drops steadily with progression. mm. Christmas, for a while, fell into an unimportant sort of space: didn't mean a lot, or couldn't mean a lot, or had been replayed too many times to mean much of anything. the first year back from Afghanistan it meant even less - not surprisingly, since so did everything else. but then he got one Christmas, just the one, where it worked. it all felt a bit more like home. so he can look up at the trees now, that comment in mind, and acknowledge the pulls of a smile at his mouth's corners. it's not difficult to find a little imagination, soften into the idea of walking through here a few weeks down the line to pinpricks of light blotting out the black and the inky blue.
between them, his arm and their interlocked hands are left to sway more naturally with steps as he loses track of them, head in other things. ]
You should talk to the mayor's office. It'd be nice.
[Yes, yes, school choir. He was on the athletics team until A levels, too: first place for the 200 metres at the Greater Manchester Schools Cup. He wasn't a bad student, at one time. Except, you know, in the legal sense.
Christmas, though. It's no longer a family affair (since he's been back in the North he's appeased his mother with a brief, wary morning visit, eyeing presents for people he doesn't want to see and dropping off none in return for the ones he takes: minimum wage, sorry.). But the afternoons have belonged to him and the small community of displaced people he's somehow found - in London, then in Bristol, now Manchester again. They change, the names and faces, but the sentiments the same.
And what's Eudio, if not a community of the displaced.]
I'm not going to talk to the mayor, Christ. [He casually takes the founder of the festival's name in vain. No, he's not going to talk to anyone. Thinking something might be nice is entirely different to making a public effort about it. He clicks his tongue.] That's a slippery slope. Next I'd be writing strongly worded letters to the Times and actually commenting in internet comment sections. Before you know it I'd be keeping a blog.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Then, he follows him outside. Because yes, actually, Freddie absolutely plans to walk to you your door, John. It might not be the straightest of lines, but walking is still a thing that he can do. And there's another thing he can do, too. The purpose of this exercise, perhaps.
As the chill of the October night bites at his face, he rubs his palms down his sides for warmth - then holds one out for John to take.]
Come on, then. Your place or the all-night rave up the road.
no subject
it's a very perfunctory acceptance. palm to palm, fingers wrapped flat around the back of a hand, thumb loosely hooked. but it's an acceptance all the same, an active seizing of opportunity. he hasn't stopped for it, either. may have slowed down, tempo stalled at the sudden turning of cogs made considerably less vigorous for the shots taking the punishing razor edge off his thought processes, but he keeps on walking, attention on the path ahead, as if there's nothing at all to holding hands and walking down the street.
which, for most people, there probably isn't.
it's good, this pretending it doesn't feel strange shtick. Freddie was right. right now, he almost believes it himself. ]
We'll see where our feet take us.
[ their feet will be taking them in the direction of John's place, courtesy of the light guiding steer on their joined hands if they start to stray from the his intended route ]
no subject
Ignoring it's fine. He keeps his fingers carefully threaded with John's and - for once - lets him lead. Though, he's guessed it won't be the rave.
Letting his feet take him places is most of how Freddie lives. And the night's nice, if cold. John's walk home cuts through green spaces, where the street light's cut off by the trees, and the sudden closeness of it makes Freddie feel deeper in winter already.]
Do you reckon they do Christmas, here?
no subject
[ if there's one thing John's noticed about Eudio, it's that it doesn't skimp out on its celebrations. any excuse. there are enough parties to get him accepting dancing lessons from Sherlock. there's no chance they'd miss out on an opportunity like Christmas.
it gets him to thinking though, quiet as it is out here. the question is just out of left field enough to drag him off with it, and before he knows it he's talking again. ]
My old landlady, Mrs Hudson. She loved Christmas. We'd make an effort, spruce the flat up a bit - lights around the fireplace, bit of tinsel around the doorways. Every other day or so in the run up she'd bring up some mince pies, we'd ply her with a glass of something fancy, and we'd all sit an chat for a bit. She said it was the only time she could get us to sit still long enough to pay her any attention.
[ it's spoken with nostalgia, warm: he misses her. another string he cut. loose smile on his mouth, half an apology for the unexpected outpouring and half the remnants of lingering fondness at the memory, John casts a glance Freddie's way and does his verbal best to tug things back on track. ] Fan of Christmas?
[ some people aren't, some people love it. he's curious to know whether Freddie's asking out of hope or a hope it might've been left at home ]
no subject
Not that he'd shy away from that, ordinarily. His attention can be unflinching enough to make the other person blink first but. There was enough given away in John's voice. The dip of Freddie's chin keeps his own thoughts shadowed, though he pulls in a quick breath and lifts a shrugged shoulder at the question.]
Yeah, I suppose. Used to be. Parts of it anyway. The music can go to fuck after about the second week of November, I had enough of carols in the school choir - don't.
[Don't you fucking laugh John Watson, yes he was a chorister in the days before he developed a dismissive attitude to anything resembling organised 'joining in'.]
So not... all that shit. [It's not quite as fondly nostalgic as John's reminiscences, clearly. And there's no personal memory offered. Christmas was a conflicted thing in the Baxter household, and has been more so in the years he's avoided anything resembling home comforts. But he misses it, sometimes. Even if he's not so much missing what was, as what was supposed to be.
He draws in another breath, a pause for thought.] I like the build up. Lights in the dark and that. I was just thinking they could light up these trees.
no subject
he doesn't, as instructed. but that doesn't mean he can't tease.
it drops steadily with progression. mm. Christmas, for a while, fell into an unimportant sort of space: didn't mean a lot, or couldn't mean a lot, or had been replayed too many times to mean much of anything. the first year back from Afghanistan it meant even less - not surprisingly, since so did everything else. but then he got one Christmas, just the one, where it worked. it all felt a bit more like home. so he can look up at the trees now, that comment in mind, and acknowledge the pulls of a smile at his mouth's corners. it's not difficult to find a little imagination, soften into the idea of walking through here a few weeks down the line to pinpricks of light blotting out the black and the inky blue.
between them, his arm and their interlocked hands are left to sway more naturally with steps as he loses track of them, head in other things. ]
You should talk to the mayor's office. It'd be nice.
no subject
Christmas, though. It's no longer a family affair (since he's been back in the North he's appeased his mother with a brief, wary morning visit, eyeing presents for people he doesn't want to see and dropping off none in return for the ones he takes: minimum wage, sorry.). But the afternoons have belonged to him and the small community of displaced people he's somehow found - in London, then in Bristol, now Manchester again. They change, the names and faces, but the sentiments the same.
And what's Eudio, if not a community of the displaced.]
I'm not going to talk to the mayor, Christ. [He casually takes the founder of the festival's name in vain. No, he's not going to talk to anyone. Thinking something might be nice is entirely different to making a public effort about it. He clicks his tongue.] That's a slippery slope. Next I'd be writing strongly worded letters to the Times and actually commenting in internet comment sections. Before you know it I'd be keeping a blog.