dance with the devil || 13 + john [ past para ]
He’s reminded in that moment that those slices of Americana he had taken for granted – long droning lectures, kickball at recess and scuffles in the playground – just were not applicable to the man before him. His smile didn’t fully slip, but there was a softening in his gaze had held the only understanding that he could, the understanding that he might never fully understand what made Jericho – 13 – no matter how many details were eventually revealed of that story. It wasn’t that John himself didn’t understand hard times, didn’t know what it was like to test your will against impossible odds, to pull yourself up from the gutter with unshakable determination when the rest of the world seemed intently focused on kicking you back down. It was that their childhoods, their origins, were, intrinsically different. He wished that he could go back, could have met Jericho in a world where they had both grown up and learned in a Brooklyn classroom, wished he could have befriended the shy, quiet kid before he sprouted several inches and learned how to remove a man’s spine with bare hands. He wished he could have been there to offer him a little kindness, but he still, and always, marveled, at how well – considering – Jericho had come out of it. There was a true admiration there that despite the odds, despite the dangers he had faced, he had not only taught himself to survive, but taught himself how to read. He had grown up an intelligent, thoughtful man, and he had done it all himself, without any of John’s help.
His smile turned complex, and then a little sad, but it didn’t lose any of his warmth. A broad palm ran through his own hair, a little good-naturedly sheepish. “It ain’t a smart expression, I’ll admit, but it’s, uh, a figure of speech, I guess. Just meant that you looked a little nervous.” John moved through his home completely at ease in it, relaxed in a way that he was never outside of it, bare feet padding soft on worn wooden floor, turning to glance back at him with those warm, considering green eyes. He watched him as Jericho took in the new surroundings, wondering what he was – so observant always – seeing when he looked at the place, wondering what it said about him. There was a hint of curiosity in his expression as he shook it off and made his way into the kitchen, pulling out a few ingredients from the fridge. “I’m gonna make you a couple of burgers, that okay?” Another small smile etched at the corners of his eyes – it wasn’t high-order French cooking, but then again, he wasn’t a particularly fancy kind of guy. John had always preferred comfort food to anything else, and he hoped that idea might work. As nonchalant as he seemed, he also was a little nervous, playing the host. He wanted Jericho to be comfortable here.
He had gotten a few things together, the meat sizzling easily on the stovetop, when he caught the thanks, and turned his head, amusement sparking in his gaze. “You always sound so formal, you know that,” he murmured, no cruelty in the observation, just a touch of teasing. “You let me over to your place all the time, of course I wanted you to see mine, it ain’t special, but it’s…home, you know?” He shrugged, quiet laughter in his gaze. “Guess everyone’s home is special.”
“Dancing?” It was with a touch of surprise, his eyes averting as he flipped one of the burgers over lightly. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been, just that he hadn’t been in ages, not since Quinton, and not more than once since Sarah died. He used to love to dance, but it was one of those things that you didn’t do much by yourself and couldn’t ask a friend to do, not if you were more into the dance hall crowd than nightclubs. “Yeah, went to one with a guy I was seeing once.” There was a bit of a hesitation over the words, it had been pretty damn recent since he had considered himself the kind of guy who saw other guys. “A few times with a few girlfriends. I—I like dancing, but it ain’t the sort of thing you do by yourself, you know?”
He glanced up and smiled. “Kinda need a boyfriend for that. Boyfriend…sounds stupid, but—you know what I mean?”
it’s harder to read, other than the colours and the lines of these scattered things, the solo feels the urge to - touch. he’s always been more tactile than cerebral. understands things like the movement of muscle under skin, the taste of sweat dripping - the tang of blood on his tongue. understands the shift of air breezes ruffling too long hair, the feel of cool rain, the soaking of water into worn boots when puddles run too deep of the streets. the firmness of a solid leather bag beneath thrown fist - much akin to the one hanging idly in the corner - looking like it was one of the more used items in the room, cracks and tape, a heavy chain hooked into the top. those are things he knows... he wants to touch the walls, smooth and clean, no bare brick on display. the small cushions, shouting with their vibrant colour laying lazily on the couch, wonders if they’re as soft as they look, whether john has aid his head upon them in rest or thought, or even a moment of passion...
“i’m sorry, i misunderstood.”
another quirk of his head, that curious expression that seemed to perch on the solo’s face making an appearance as he tries to process and understand. and consider. he can wind his way into forbidden places and take a life without a bead of sweat making an appearance on his brow. can cut, shoot, garrotte, exsanguinate, exterminate... without a flicker of doubt or uncertainty. but here...?
“i am... a little nervous, yes. this is a new experience for me.”
he would like it to be ‘right’, doesn’t really know the social conventions involved, but whether right or wrong, he wants it to be good - a good experience, for both him and john. and as the other rakes his hand through his hair once more - something that he’s noticed is often a gesture of uncertainty or frustration, there’s the smallest hint of a smile that touches the corner of his lips.
“though i suspect i’m not the only one?”
a small nod at the suggestion of burgers, he has never been wholly picky about food, tending to stay to the more simplistic side of cuisine - though he doesn’t think that anyone has ever cooked for him before ( aside from buying from street vendors, and paying for the privilege was something entirely different ).
“i would like that very much, thank you.”
and as john makes his way into the kitchen, jericho decides that perhaps, it might be okay to indulge in a little of that curiosity. padding quietly over to the couch to pick up one of those cushions, fingers sinking into the softness, brushing over the texture of the covering. though he does look up moving a little closer to where john is turning burgers on the stove, staying at enough of a distance so that any splashes of fat wouldn’t stain the cushion, still in his hands.
“i don’t often have so many opportunities to converse. though i have heard many mannerisms of speech, john. some less pleasant than others.”
the gangs. with their crass, crude speech. mostly profanity. threats. attempting to verbalise where they couldn’t compensate otherwise. he hadn’t spoken an awful lot when he’d been running for them. and then there had been marcell. regimented. militaristic. disciplined. and yes, sometimes the old solo could expound such profanity that would likely shock - but he’d also been quite persistent about there being a dignity in their work. even where some might think it couldn’t exist in such a place, in people like them... so he speaks as he was taught. honestly. politely. and with respect. but knows when to turn such words to the sharper edge of language. how to tease, taunt, and sometimes, on those rare occasions when there is a rising of anger, the words come harder, heavier, with less thought, with more venom. he doesn’t always like how he sounds.
“i can’t say there have not been times when i have spoken -- less pleasantly. i recall one time, quite recently in fact. in my basement. in the training room. with some guy. green eyes. he thought it was a good idea to kiss me...”
because the words then had been heated and harsh, brutal -- but true. and in the aftermath of them... well, that had been quite the revelation. and that smile which had been a flicker before turns into a wider grin. though he doesn’t linger on that slight tease, simply casts a quick glance around --
“your home doesn’t have an empty elevator shaft. i think, perhaps, if you were to start climbing here, your neighbours may be slightly inconvenienced. i suppose my home is special in that context at least.”
he knows what the other’s saying, and his own words are spoken on the edge of a smile. he’s never really thought of it as ‘special’, but he does keep it clean. treats the minimal environment with respect. asks the same of others. so yes - he supposes that it is. he’s only every really thought of it as practical before... but now that it’s put directly to him, he finds himself agreeing with the sentiment.
“yes... i think that they are.”
he does notice the slight aversion though, thinks perhaps john might be uncomfortable with the topic - though he’s not sure which part of the topic... the dancing, or the slight fluster of words which follow. and there’s a slight furrowing of brow - because there’s another not so far away event that comes to mind. a time when some - not so pleasant words - had been thrown at john. accusations, disparaging terms, joined with the harsh beat of fists to flesh, cruel taunts, and this man... this bright, determined, caring man... left beaten and broken in the aftermath. simply because his choices were not the same as theirs. and there’s an irony in the fact that the solo was rather intolerant of the intolerant. he wonders if the one with the knife in his thigh is still walking with a limp. more than likely.
“i know what you mean.”
it’s spoken a little more quietly. perhaps with a degree more understanding than he’s often given credit for. quiet observant eyes sometimes seeing more than might be thought. he’s not so concerned with terms, labels - though has never really been the kind of person to use them. things just - are as they are. but he has seen labels used - things which attached - which ‘stuck’, whether deserving or not. whether true or not. and most of them were often only there as a means of judgement by others. ‘this is the label you have, this is the box that you fit into’. he doesn’t need john to try to name this. to label them.
“i don’t know how to dance. but if you ever want to dance, john, i will dance with you.”















