He’s got an arm over his eyes, one arm hanging off the love seat he’s draped across, swirling around his Macallan 1926, really just to hear the on the rocks gentle clink against the crystal glass. Not in a red solo cup, surprise! — he’s supposing the occasion calls for the formality. “Dated,” he repeats. It’s funny. He’s always liked when people mock his family — particularly when he doesn’t have to start the festivities. “Really, Mister Fox,” he breathes out, soft, obnoxious and obvious in it’s teasing, Norma Jeane on John F.’s birthday. “If you’ve ever thought of me as a gentleman with good taste — sir, I think you have some serious issues to address.” He pushes himself up on his palms, sitting back against the plush excess of velvet and silk and embroidered pillows.
“Great Aunt Ginger Hitchcock — no relation — was the last one to really renovate the place. She lived out here twelve months a year, even when the bay froze over. She was the one who had that boathouse by the docks built. It was meant to be the entrance to a bomb shelter, see, behind the kayaks there’s — a lever, or a lock, and behind that a staircase. It doesn’t go anywhere. I saw the blueprints once, they’re locked away in here somewhere, and it was the most luxurious bunker I’ve ever seen. It was the forties, before the end of the war — I think she was really bored. She was going to have it built on the edge of the bay,” he says. Absorbed by his own storytelling, Boris forgets, like always, that he’s supposed to savour the 26, and downs it in one gulp. “She had this idea for an aquarium room, with a forty—foot glass wall facing the bay. So she could watch the whales, see, while the world burned.”
He stares up at the domed ceiling, at the landscapes immortalized there — until they’re painted over. Willow trees and jack pines and moonlit water and orange skies. Same, he knows, that he’d see if he was at a window. “Clearly it’s been left alone since my parents got it as a wedding gift. I think the last update the place got was in the summer of eighty—seven — I glued and stapled an Ava Gardner poster to the wall of the study upstairs.” He stands, sauntering over to the bar cart. Lifts up the bottles one by one, reading each label, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of his afternoon down in the liquor cabinet, picking each bottle out carefully. “You don’t want a drink, do you? Not a bad bartender — I can make it if it’s straight, on the rocks, or a screwdriver.” He victoriously picks up the already—opened bottle of the 1926, like it’s a surprise to find it just where he left it. “That said, naturally, if you’ve got some ideas on the interior, I’m all ears. I’ve been looking for a new pet project, anyway. I was thinking about giving Llewelyn a makeover, like in My Fair Lady, but Arthur seems to keep his hands full in his free time.” He pours himself a helping of whiskey, two fingers worth, and makes up a glass of the same for Alistair.
“Perhaps you and I could learn to build a deck in the meantime, old sport. It builds character, doesn’t it?”
“ do i now ? ” he raises an eyebrow, serious, but the expression drops quickly and his shoulders shake with silent laughter. “ i’m sorry to say i had more faith in you. ” he lifts his glass up in a mock toast towards boris before bringing it to his lips and tilting it back, draining the bourbon. he glances around. it’s not bad, not entirely ? ( he grimaces while thinking that ). perhaps it’s just not his style. it’s a little garish and in your face --- alistair is nothing if not understated. there is a stark contrast between him and boris but he could never say he disliked the younger man. it’s quite the opposite. he finds himself entertained and amused in even the dullest of situations. his company is usually more than alistair could ever ask for.
he listens to the story he’s being told with full focus and his lips part slightly, incredulous, slightly awed, and he listens to every detail that boris gives. he finds himself eager to hear each next line. “ that might be the wildest thing i’ve ever heard. a bunker ? really ? to watch whales ? ” he laughs again, this time loud and full. “ i love how that’s the priority. really, though, i can’t imagine living during wartime. i suppose wants and needs get a little skewed due to the world environment. ” he glances around the room, as if to imagine the hall they’re in as the bunker. he tries to imagine the aquarium but he’s unsuccessful. “ what happened ? why didn’t it ever happen ? ” it’s not to say he’s glad it didn’t. they wouldn’t be here if it did.
“ an admirable update, ” says alistair with a sage nod. “ you should really add more of your own touches. add that signature sayre je ne sais quoi. " he doesn’t argue about the drink and he gladly takes the one that boris offers. “ i suppose i should apologize --- i know nothing about interior decorating. perhaps i was a fraud to bring it up. ”
alistair reaches a hand up, rubbing at his temple. “ please don’t scare the first years. ”
the last idea though --- “ i’m afraid i’m not very handy. if you wanted to build it, though, i suppose i could supervise. that’s the most i could offer you. ”
