[ 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.
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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.