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Mar. 16th, 2006 06:08 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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popslash_lollipopsI'm going through a really bad patch now, which means it's time for some h/c! AU Letterboys, if you please.
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Bohemian Sonata [1/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:43 am (UTC)The mathematics of the mews house numbers kept J.C. amused for the minute or so it took him to find seventeen. He rang the bell, listening for the sharp burr within (as he remembered Joseph's laughing comments about socks in the mechanism, and muses), then rang it again. After the third ring proved equally as futile, he stepped back and examined the windows above him. Assuming this was indeed the correct address, all the curtains were tightly drawn. No one among his acquaintances would experience any difficulties in imagining that Alexander McLean might still be abed in the middle of the afternoon. However, J.C. was there in pursuit of other quarry.
"I do believe he isn't here," J.C. said aloud to himself.
"You're wrong—he is."
J.C. blinked, then looked down from the window. The man who had spoken was not precisely hiding, but he was standing quite still in the doorway opposite (number three), and perhaps J.C. could have been forgiven for not noticing him prior to that moment.
"Hello," J.C. said with some reserve. Persons waiting outside Alexander's residence frequently had less than pure motives, often concerning the vigorous collection of debts.
"You're looking for Alex, right?" the stranger demanded.
His friends often accused J.C. of a lack of perception, but in this case he realised swiftly that the stranger was in a state of some distress. His clothes had the look, quite familiar to a dedicated academic, of having served for two or perhaps even three consecutive days. His blond hair was unbrushed, his broad, honest face was troubled, and as he spoke his gaze returned again and again to the rooms above. In every aspect he possessed the air of a man not in search of overdue funds, but in a deep agitation of spirit.
A different question, however, pressed more urgently on J.C.'s mind.
"I say, are you an American?" JC asked.
"Yes," the stranger said impatiently.
"Oh. Which part—I mean, from where in America?"
"Kentucky. Does it matter?"
J.C. conceded that on the grander scale, most probably it did not. "It's just that I did wonder, you see, if you might be a missionary."
The man eyed J.C. as though he suspected a strong streak of insanity. "Why, yes, I am."
"I thought as much," J.C. said, with the happiness born of successful deduction. "Then I know exactly who you are."
That prompted a flicker of alarm on the man's face, then he dismissed it with a wave. "The name's Littrell. Are you a friend of Alex's?"
That was something of a delicate question. J.C.'s knowledge of Littrell had come from Joseph after the Christmas vac. His knowledge of Alexander McLean was of much older provenance, and not entirely positive in character. J.C. could on occasion be careless of others, when he was deeply absorbed in his work or some other matter of the intellect, but any hurts he inflicted were wholly accidental, and repaired as swiftly as they may be once J.C. had been made aware of them. Alex, however, considered the spreading of mayhem and confusion to be a joyous duty. It was almost his religion.
Understanding that Joseph was sincerely fond of the Scot, J.C. generally strove to view his actions in a charitable light. But any man, however willing to think the best of a fellow human being, might find his good nature stretched when confronted with a very probably defrocked missionary outside the residence of the man responsible for his defrocking.
"I'm the friend of a friend of his," J.C. admitted. "My name's Chasez. Actually, I came looking for him. Not Alex, the other chap. If neither of them are here, then I should probably push off and try my luck somewhere else."
The latter part made no impression on Littrell. "I could really use your help," he said. "See, I think he's sick. That is, he was sick, when I saw him last, and he said he didn't want to be 'bothered and fussed over', to use his words, and that I wasn't his momma. But I haven't seen him in five days."
J.C. shuffled his feet, good manners conflicting with a very strong desire not to be in the vicinity when Alex's latest unfortunate victim d'amour discovered that Alex's affection was not a limitless quality. Good manners, combined with a pinch of concern that perhaps the illness could be genuine, won out.
Bohemian Sonata [2/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:43 am (UTC)"Hey, what are you doing?" Littrell asked in surprise.
"I rather thought I might break in," J.C. said and, before Littrell could protest again, he started to climb.
The drainpipe, being round and with usefully-placed supports, offered an easy shin up to the level of Alex's rooms. The window catch was closed, but it jemmied open with a penknife blade. J.C. hauled up the sash and, after a brief tussle with the curtains, fell inside.
Once the curtains were open, it was clear that Alex was not in the room; nor was there a fire in the grate to suggest the room was in use. J.C. picked his way between the canvases, books and other junk, around the bed heaped high with cushions and quilts, and to the door. The cramped landing outside offered him only two other doors, one standing ajar to show a black-and-white tiled bathroom.
Thus he found Alex behind the remaining door, in the tiny bedroom. The door would only open half way, so J.C. was forced to squeeze through. The bed, the wardrobe, the dresser and the bedside table left little enough room for someone to stand; that space was further limited by piles of books and papers, each proudly topped by an empty bottle.
Alex, oblivious to his guest, lay in the bed. He looked so still and white that J.C. felt a chill of real apprehension, until he saw the rise and fall of his chest beneath the counterpane.
J.C. hesitated by the bed. Remembering that he had broken into the place, and therefore that Alex would hardly be expecting anyone to wake him, he worried about the possible consequences to the invalid of a nervous shock. J.C. himself hated to be awoken unexpectedly.
Fortune saved him from a decision. Taking a step towards the window, intending to open the curtains, J.C. caught his foot against a stack of books. They tumbled over, sending a bottle clattering beneath the bed.
Alex's eyes opened suddenly, and he blinked at J.C. in obvious confusion.
"Hullo, McLean," J.C. said, by way of demonstrating that he wasn't an hallucination or a ghost.
"Chasez?" he whispered.
"That's right. I say, are you well? You're most frightfully pale."
Alex tried to speak again, then stopped and licked his lips. "Need water," he croaked. "The kitchen's downstairs."
An empty jug and glass sat on the table by the bed, so J.C. took them. He negotiated the dark, narrow stairs with trepidation, as the treads creaked dreadfully. The whole house smelt decidedly damp. At the foot of the stairs, the front door stood locked. He considered opening it to admit Littrell, but decided he really couldn't do that without first consulting Alex.
The mess in the kitchen made the rooms upstairs look by comparison like an advertisement for a patent cleaning machine. A strong smell of rancid milk permeated the room. That there was nothing fit to eat in the place J.C. could tell without searching further. He couldn't even see a bottle of beer or whiskey. Endeavouring not to touch more than was strictly necessary, J.C. rinsed out the jug and glass, and let the water run before he filled the jug and carried it upstairs.
Bohemian Sonata [3/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:43 am (UTC)"Climbed up the drainpipe and jemmied your window catch."
Other men might have baulked at news of housebreaking, but Alexander took it perfectly in his stride. "And what d'you want?"
"I came looking for Joseph," J.C. said with perfect truth.
Alex coughed raspingly. "Well, I haven't seen him. What time is it?"
"A little after three."
"Oh." Alex pondered that for a moment, although from his expression it did not bring much enlightenment. He rubbed his hand consideringly over his unshaven jaw. "And—what day?"
"Thursday. Have you been ill?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Alex coughed again, and waved his hand. "I went walking in the rain, and caught a devil of a chill. But I'm perfectly all right now. Much better, anyway. I say, you don't have a cigarette, do you?"
J.C., who understood what it was to be caught without a cigarette since for some reason the number he thought he had smoked never seemed to correspond with the number remaining, checked about his person. He was about to say no, when he found the silver case in an unexpected pocket.
"Here you go."
Alex struggled into a sitting position to light it, then drew the smoke in and sighed happily. "Oh, yes. That's what I needed to put me right. Thursday, eh? I distinctly remember Sunday. Damn church bells wouldn't let me sleep. I wonder what happened to the rest of the week?"
"Have you been alone all that time?" J.C. put the case away in a different pocket. "What about your girl, the one in the painting Joseph gave to his mother?"
"Mabel? Oh, we had a bust-up weeks ago. I told her to pack up and clear off."
"I see. By the way, your missionary chap is standing outside in the street," J.C. informed him casually.
Alexander slumped back against the pillows with a groan. "Oh, not still, surely? Do be a pal and go tell the pest to shove off, will you?"
"Actually, he's the reason I climbed up. If it weren't for him, I would've gone off and never found you at all. You really ought at least to say thanks. He looks to have been waiting outside for ages, and he's jolly worried about you."
"No," Alex muttered through clenched teeth. "I don't want him around, and that's the end of it."
"But why ever not? I'm sure he'd be wonderful at taking your temperature, and plumping up your pillows, and so on." J.C. frowned. "Does he know how to make tea? It's one thing Americans generally can't do, or so I've found, although I dare say it isn't their fault. I could try to teach him, before I go."
That seemed to needle far more than the question about Mabel.
"Dammit, Chasez. I told you—send him away!" the effort of raising his voice set Alex coughing again, with a violence that shook the bed. Finally he managed to stop, gasping for breath.
"I say, steady on. Are you really all right?"
Alex glared at him from watering eyes. "What the blazes do you care whether I am or not?" he asked hoarsely.
Truthfully, in the absolute, J.C. did care rather less he might have done with a perfect stranger: whatever the cause of his suffering, he supposed it was very probably either self-inflicted or well-deserved. However, suffering he plainly was, and even had J.C's own conscience not been sufficient to compel him to help McLean, then his sense of duty towards Joseph's friend certainly was. J.C. sat down on the edge of the narrow bed.
"Has something happened with this Littrell fellow?" After a long moment passed in silence, J.C. prompted, "Alex?"
Alex muttered words to the effect that it was none of J.C.'s damned business and he could go jump in the Thames if he thought any different.
"Did you chuck him too, like Mabel?"
To this, Alex said nothing.
"Is he in love with you?" J.C. asked with all the sternness he could put into the question.
"How the hell should I know? And why the hell should I care?" Alex shifted restlessly in the bed, and pushed his lank, unkempt hair back from his forehead. "Oh, damn the man! I wish I'd never laid eyes on him. Why couldn't he have stayed in bloody Kentucky and never come here?"
Bohemian Sonata [4/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:43 am (UTC)"I'll get him to push off for a while," J.C. said decisively, "and you can bathe and I can straighten the place out, and then he can come back."
Alex remained sullenly silent, which J.C. chose to take as agreement. Noticing the keys to the house lying on the table by the bed, J.C. picked them up and tiptoed his way through the debris and over to the window.
Upon opening the curtains, he discovered Littrell waiting below with every symptom of acute anxiety.
"Is he okay?" he called up the moment J.C. had persuaded the recalcitrant sash to lift.
"Mostly," J.C. replied. "Sorry to be so long. Listen—would you mind awfully nipping off to find a grocer's shop or something, and buying milk and bread? And, oh, tea, and butter and sugar, and eggs, and some cheese and ham, and..." He frowned, trying to recall what people brought one when one was ill. "A milk pudding, perhaps? Just general sorts of things. Here, I'll throw down the keys so you can let yourself in when you come back."
"And bring me some whiskey," the invalid called from the bed in a surprisingly strong voice, having apparently decided to make the best of the situation.
Perhaps Littrell heard him. In any case, he agreed to the mission with a more cheerful countenance than he had so far shown.
***
The day was overcast and grey, so J.C. lit the mantels, which immediately gave the house a more pleasant aspect. After discovering a quantity of coal in the coal cellar, he laid fires in the bedroom and the living room. Then, with some little difficulty, he provoked the gas geyser into providing hot water and, overriding Alex's protests, he chivvied him out of bed and into the bathroom. The invalid proved rather shaky on his feet, and J.C. insisting on remaining to oversee him into the bath. J.C. thought he looked fearfully thin and pale, but he refrained from further comment.
While Alex grumbled and bathed, J.C. stripped the sheets from his bed and bundled them up with everything else which looked like laundry. Finding fresh sheets in a cupboard, he contemplated the task of remaking the bed, then decided with relief that the sheets were a little musty and should first be aired in front of the fire.
"I say—Chasez."
The reluctant summons came from the bathroom. Alex, now out of the bath and wrapped in a towel, had lather on his face and a straight razor in his hand. Observing that Alex's hand shook rather badly, J.C. set him without comment on the edge of the tub and shaved him carefully.
"Thanks," Alex said when he was done.
J.C. tossed a pair of clean, warmed pyjamas at him, and told him to be sure to brush his hair. Then he left Alex to make himself comfortable in the living room, and returned with some trepidation to the kitchen.
The geyser, although wheezing asthmatically, was persuaded to supply more water. Most—but by no means all—of J.C.'s acquaintances would've been astonished to see him methodically working his way through the mess, humming as he cleaned and tidied. He emptied old milk bottles; washed the piled crockery, cutlery and pans (which seemed to include every item which the household possessed); and scrubbed down the table. Then he emptied the cupboards and drawers (a very brief task), wiped them out, and lined them with an old newspaper which lay handily by.
Bohemian Sonata [5/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:44 am (UTC)They deposited the spoils on the kitchen table, and Littrell stared around as though he had never seen the room so clean before.
"Which is the tea?" J.C. asked.
"What? Oh. That one right there, or at least I think so."
"Good man." The kettle was already singing again. While he spoke, J.C. liberated the tea and measured it into the warmed pot. "I've put everything ready there on a tray. Why don't you take these up to him? If you'll sit with him, I'll make some sandwiches. Now, what else? Milk. And sugar—I found the bowl somewhere, I'm sure. Right, here we are. That should revive him a little."
Littrell took the tray and smiled wryly. It made him look rather handsome. "You English sure do like your tea, don't you?"
J.C. listened to his footsteps retreating down the narrow passage and up the stairs. They entered the living room, paused, and then carried on. Opening the next of the parcels, J.C. smiled.
The American had done them proud. As well as the items J.C. had suggested—including the milk pudding—he discovered a quantity of tins, pots of jam and honey, a cold chicken, apples, potted meat, and a rich dark fruitcake. There was also a bottle of whiskey, which J.C. hid in a drawer. He hacked up the bread with a blunt knife, and made some rather heroic sandwiches with the cheese and ham. At the back of a cupboard he had discovered a stone jar of mustard, only a little crusty, and so he added that liberally to the sandwiches. All the while he kept one casual ear on the intermittent conversation in the room above. He couldn't make out the words, but no voices were raised or doors slammed. Once or twice, he heard Alex coughing.
Having filled the kettle again, he took it upstairs, recalling a place for it in the living room fireplace.
***
Alex lay in the bed, surrounded by pillows and under a profusion of quilts, and he scowled at J.C. like an Eastern potentate in a towering bad temper. Littrell was sitting by the fireplace at a respectable distance, pretending to read a book. J.C. put down the heavy tray, then set the kettle on the fire.
Alex protested he wasn't hungry, but with the other two men taking turns to insist, they got a quantity of the sandwiches into him. J.C. and Littrell, one from unexpected domestic exercise and the other from nervous tension, found themselves with fine appetites, and J.C. returned to the kitchen and cut up more bread to have with the potted meat.
When he returned, Alex had fallen asleep, still buried in his quilts but with a touch of healthier colour to his still-pallid skin. Between them, J.C. and Littrell polished off the fresh plate of sandwiches, washing them down with more tea. Neither of them spoke, but both cast glances from time to time towards their sleeping host.
Bohemian Sonata [6/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:44 am (UTC)"I'm sure he will. I've seen him get like this before, usually if he's having a painting mania or an attack of poetry. Although," J.C. suggested off-handedly, "if you don't have any pressing engagements, then perhaps you might stay with him for a little while?"
He didn't wish to mention that a man willing to stand under someone's window for days on end had presumably already cancelled any engagements he might have had.
"I—yes, I guess I could," Littrell said.
"Try to get him to have some of the milk pudding. Or anything, really, which isn't cigarettes and whiskey. I imagine he's had enough of those already. It's awfully good of you to be so concerned for him," J.C. added. "Had you been waiting outside for long?"
Littrell winced slightly. "A couple days, off and on. I know it seems kinda odd, but to tell you the truth, I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't just leave him alone, with no idea if he was okay, but he has no family living around here, at least not that I know about, and I couldn't call the police, not when—"
He stopped abruptly, as though his words had carried him further than he meant to go.
"Not when what?" JC prompted.
"Well, I just meant that—my church sent me out here—paid for my passage. How would it look to them if they found out I'd made friends with a disreputable character like Alex?"
His heart was not in the lie, and he told it badly.
"Surely you could tell them you were busy saving souls? McLean needs it, if anyone does."
The comment came out more archly than J.C. had intended. As though he could no longer bear J.C.'s scrutiny, Littrell dropped his gaze.
"Although he can be a very charming sort of chap, when he tries to be," J.C. added hurriedly. "He makes friends awfully easily, with all sort of people."
Littrell did not look up. His hands, clasped before him, were white-knuckled. "Oh, Lord," he whispered, entreaty not curse. "What have I done?"
"Whatever's the matter?" J.C. asked, knowing full well what the answer must be.
"I can't explain it to you," Littrell said in a low voice. "But—oh. I've been rightly punished, for my pride. For my sin of pride." His accent dragged the vowels out tragically. "For reckoning that I was better than him. Please, don't ask me any more about it."
J.C. sighed. Truthfully, having the bad luck to fall in love with Alexander McLean did have the ring of divine punishment about it.
"Well, if it's any comfort, I expect that you are better than him. McLean has a frightful reputation, most of it very well deserved. He gambles, he never pays his bills, he lies, he drinks far too much, he drives his poor parents to distraction with his unsuitable women, and he has some rather warm acquaintances."
Littrell laughed bitterly. "Oh, don't think I don't know it!"
Yet the glance he directed towards the unconscious occupant of the bed was far from condemnatory.
"You're really very fond of him, aren't you?" J.C. asked.
The tenderness vanished from his face, and Littrell put his head in his hands and groaned.
In J.C.'s experience, most people delighted in making things vastly more complicated than they had any need to be. However, as with night climbing, in some cases he accepted that a less direct approach was necessary to reach one's goal.
"I was terribly fond of a fellow at school," he said delicately.
The man in front of him became perfectly still.
"And he was fond of me. They say it's rather common, for one boy to admire another, even quite passionately. We used to take walks in the school grounds, arm in arm, and plan how, when we were done with school, we would set up house together and live a fine old bachelor life."
Littrell lifted his head, his hands dropping to dangle between his thighs. He frowned at J.C., his expression sour. "Don't tell me—you got over it, and grew up, fell in love with a girl, and now everything's peachy."
"Not quite. You see, after—after the War, he followed me up to Cambridge. To tell the truth, I don't really understand what he sees in me. I know I can be rather a trial. But somehow we're very happy, and I hope we always shall be."
Bohemian Sonata [7/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:44 am (UTC)"Do you believe in God?" Littrell demanded abruptly.
"Oh, yes," J.C. said, immensely relieved to be bowled a question he could answer with a straight bat. "Very much. I had doubts in the past from time to time, as one sometimes does when the world seems very cruel and unfair, but not any more."
"And you go to church, too?"
"Yes. Or at least, I'm a member of the Religious Society of Friends—a Quaker. So we have a Meeting House rather than a church, and so on."
Littrell leaned forward with desperate appeal in his eyes. "Then how—how can you possibly...?"
Understanding that the answer was of the greatest importance—and knowing very well that the presentation of the truth can carry as great a weight as the truth itself—J.C. considered carefully before he spoke.
"Truly, in my heart, I believe that what Joseph and I share doesn't offend God. After all, He made us. He put the love we feel into our hearts, and placed us on the earth together. It's one of the miracles of Creation that I should happen to meet someone as perfect a match for me as Joseph." J.C., who was not often given a chance to talk philosophically about Joseph, found himself warming to his theme. "He's the other half of my soul, my dearest friend, my rock—everything a mate should be. In a way, just the fact that we both exist, and that we met, seems to me to show that God does not condemn the idea of men loving one another; because if He did, then something so beautiful and intuitively right could not exist. Or, at least, that's the way it seems to me. I daresay I could be wrong."
Perhaps it was the self-depreciating doubt of the coda which carried the weight of the argument, for some of the lines of strain around Littrell's eyes eased.
"But you think it's true?" he asked.
"Oh, absolutely. Of course, it isn't the sort of thing one can prove. In mathematics, ninety-nine times out of a hundred one can say if a thing is right or wrong in no time at all, and then go on with it or not. I can only tell you what I believe and what I don't. And I simply cannot believe that a just and loving God would wish two people to be unhappy apart when they can share so much joy together."
"I thought I was happy," Littrell said. "Before."
He had a defeated air which touched J.C.'s heart acutely. "And were you?"
"I don't know. I guess so. Happier than I am right now, that's for sure." His eyes turned to the bed again, drawn as helplessly as a nail to a magnet. "Except that looking back it all seems kinda empty and...like I was waiting for something to happen."
"Well, now something has," J.C. said as lightly as he could. "And perhaps that's why—what did bring you to London in the first place?"
Littrell smiled a little at the question, and J.C. thought again how handsomely it transformed his face.
"Well, I guess I don't seem it right now, but in my family I was always the adventurous one. My momma had her eye on a girl for me—she's a sweet girl, and she'd make a fine wife, but I felt like I oughta see something of the world before I settled down. And I thought I could combine it with doing the Lord's work." A spasm of remorse (or perhaps self-disgust) crossed over his face, but he shook his head, dismissing the emotion. "So I went to study at the Theological Seminary in Louisville, and then I trained as a missionary. And here I am."
Bohemian Sonata [8/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:44 am (UTC)"And I can't tell you how much...to meet someone I can talk to about.... Please, tell me what you think I should do now," Littrell begged.
J.C. was more accustomed to this than a casual observer of him might suspect. Friends frequently brought their difficulties to Joseph, who was a sympathetic and generous soul, and J.C. had watched and listened, learning from a master. It often seemed strange to him to discover what situations people found problematic. Most of them could be resolved with extremely simple and practical actions—confess a financial misfortune to one's parents, chuck an unsuitable girlfriend who was making one miserable, study harder in the subject one found difficult—and in those cases Joseph would wait until his visitor had talked themselves out of all other options, and then agree wholeheartedly with the sensible conclusion.
In this instance, it was true, no such simple solution presented itself. Yet he knew the principle still applied. There was no one who could untangle Littrell's situation unless it was Littrell himself.
"I can't, I'm afraid," J.C. said gently. "You see, I don't really know enough about you, or your circumstances. I can't even say that I'm a great friend of Alex's. I couldn't begin to advise you."
"I should buy a ticket for the boat home," the young American said with miserable certainly. "Shouldn't I? Go back to Kentucky."
"It might be for the best. It's hard for—" Dare he risk it? J.C. thought that he might. "—for men like us. Cambridge is so sheltered in many ways, I even find myself forgetting what it's like outside. But if you think you could be happy again, if you think you could be true to yourself and honest with the rest of the world, living another way, then perhaps you should."
"Another way? You mean, find myself a new job, and be a respectable citizen again? Go to church every Sunday? Marry Anne and make her unhappy too? No!" Determination straightened his spine for a moment, then he slumped back again. "But what else is there? How would I live if I stayed?" Littrell sighed deeply. "If only I knew how 'lex felt about—about it all."
History suggested that the best thing for Littrell might very well be for to J.C. keep his counsel. However, he had never felt comfortable with sins of omission.
"I do know that he's most awfully fond of you," J.C. said.
"Really?" Littrell looked up in surprise.
"Oh, absolutely. To tell you the truth, I've met him any number of times, and I've never seen him so attached to a chap. Especially not—" J.C. paused just in time. It would, he realised, be extremely tactless to point out that Littrell was simply the latest in a long line of enthusiastically undertaken corruptions, albeit one where the fly had unwittingly entrapped the spider. "He simply needs to stop being a stubborn fool and admit it to himself, that's the fact of it. Give him time. This is all quite as new to him as it is to you."
"But he's..." Littrell trailed off, and his expression showed clearly that he had taken J.C.'s meaning.
The eight-day clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the silence, and J.C. was surprised to see how the afternoon had flown by. The fire was sinking low, so J.C. added another small shovelful of coal and stirred it, watching the sparks dance up the chimney. Despite the cool spring weather outside, the room had grown quite warm, and it might be supposed that Alexander was sweating beneath the layered quilts. However, if the heat had awakened him then he showed no sign of it, not stirring in the least. Glancing over to the bed, J.C. thought he caught a glitter of dark eyes, quickly hidden behind long lashes, but it might have been no more than a trick of the light.
Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 10:44 am (UTC)"Oh, quite. And, I say, do take my card, won't you? Whatever you decide, if I can be of any use then send a message to me at College. Or to Joseph." J.C. smiled. "Most people would tell you that he's ever so much more reliable for this sort of thing. I'm just as likely to be in a library, working, and not read your letter for a week."
Littrell took the card without hesitation. "Thanks."
"And, well—give it back here a moment." J.C. took the card, and wrote on the back with his propelling pencil. "This is the address of the Friends' Meeting House I go to when I'm visiting my aunt and uncle in town. Perhaps you might like to listen to what they have to say there, about this and that. They're all very decent people. You can tell them I sent you along, if you like—my aunt and uncle attend meetings there, and they'd be awfully pleased to meet you. They're never quite sure about my university friends, so I dare say they'd like to think I knew a missionary."
For a moment J.C. wondered if he had overstepped the mark, but to his relief Littrell smiled again. "I guess it sounds good enough, if you don't know the full story."
"And now I'm afraid I really must push off," J.C. said. "Even though it's all been in a terribly good cause, Joseph will be wondering what's become of me."
"Yes, of course! You said he was meant to be here." Alarm crossed Littrell's face. "Could something have happened to him?"
"Oh, I'm sure not. It's all my fault, as usual. I was supposed to meet him somewhere, only I started thinking about this particular problem I've been working on, and I had some very interesting ideas about another way I could attack it, and then suddenly I was fearfully late and I think somehow I left the telegram in another jacket. Anyway, I did have an idea he meant to see Alex, but obviously I was wrong. So I'll try one or two of his clubs, and if he isn't anywhere about, I'll go to his people's town house. They're quite accustomed to my turning up without warning."
They stood and shook hands.
"Thanks," Littrell said. "Really, I mean that. I hope we'll meet again."
Not quite sure that he deserved gratitude (whether he did or not depending largely on how one viewed encouraging an attachment to Alexander McLean) J.C. merely replied, "It was very nice to meet you."
"Shall I wake Alex?" Littrell asked. Quite unconsciously, he had assumed full charge of the invalid.
"No need. Just, if you could tell him I'll send his regards to Joseph, and that he absolutely mustn't forget that he's to come and hear the new college bells rung in the summer."
"I will. Goodbye."
The shook hands again and parted cordially. As J.C. laid his hand on the bannister he paused, seeing, through the still-open door, Littrell sit down on the edge of the bed and tenderly stroke Alex's forehead. Despite any misgivings he had, J.C. couldn't help the brief smile which touched his lips before he lowered his gaze, and descended the stairs.
Somewhere in London, Joseph would be waiting for him, and in that moment J.C. found himself extraordinarily eager to see him.
***
***
[I'm afraid that I messed with your pairing a bit, and got some Brian in your Letterboys. I hope you don't mind too much. :-)
As before this is an interlude from an as-yet-unwritten 1920s Cambridge!sync AU, original concepts and sparkly casting by
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 11:43 am (UTC)Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 06:04 pm (UTC)Thank you. With JC, the hardest thing is to stop myself writing 'you know' and 'like' all the time :-)
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 01:27 pm (UTC)xx
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 06:06 pm (UTC)He's wonderfully fun. :-) Now I'm really looking forward to writing/reading the bit where he takes Nick to tea and talks seriously to him.
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 01:36 pm (UTC)Limber!JC climbing up the pipes! Domestic!JC! JC taking care of AJ! Guh.
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 06:11 pm (UTC)And now I want to write huge reams of Alex/Brian about how everything works out for them, and about Brian dealing with the whole sex thing, and about Alex doing his best to pull himself together and ending up writing detective serials and illustrating magazines because Brian actually wants to pay bills sometimes, and finding himself secretly enjoying working for a living. And I really ought to write the main story first, but -- Brian! Alex!
This is all your fault, you evil BSB pimp, you!
Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 01:50 pm (UTC)Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-03-20 06:12 pm (UTC)Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-04-25 11:41 am (UTC)Re: Bohemian Sonata [9/9]
Date: 2006-04-25 05:08 pm (UTC)Thank you :-)
Domestic!JC fills me with delight
It's actually even more adorable than it reads right now because most of the time Cambridge!JC is so vague and absorbed in his maths, and then he has these sudden fits of practicality where he sorts people's lives out, and then, bang! He's back to sunbathing naked on his roof, and forgetting to eat.
JC tidying up the kitchen imediately put me in mind of Bunter doing the same thing to Harriet & Peter's bedroom the first night at Talboys.
Oh, eee! I love that book so much -- it's one of my real comfort reads. It's also the main reason why we keep struggling with the exact date for the Cambridge!sync story because I so badly want to have mildly shell-shocked JC. Because, you know -- nightmares, and a flashback triggered by Joey injuring his leg falling through a trapdoor, and then more tea and comforting!