#early v.

[widwer]

@rassvetiye.

“you could give us a break.” he’s too uncharacteristically sheepish for it to come across as anything other than this: i’m tired out. let me stay in and i’ll make it worth your while.

although he’s certain jayne feels he’s exposed something precious, taking him abroad and letting him be seen by new people, beverly’s never looked half as claimed as he does now. wedding ring on, his hair left to grow past its usual length into loose curls, and he’s heavier—even wearing one of jayne’s larger shirts without permission.

“not a small man, are you.” he keeps his head down as he prepares his coffee; sucks a dab of chocolate flavoring from the end of his thumb. “fucking difficult to keep up with.”

[widwer]

@rassvetiye.

in a rare show of very temperate dominance, beverly gently guides jayne’s jaw to encourage a flicker of eye contact, assuming that’s all he’s willing to give.

“are you still cross with us?” with the pad of his thumb, he touches him just below his lower lip, then pulls lightly to see if he’ll let it part with the upper. dinner sits untouched in the other room. “or getting hungry?”

[widwer]

@rassvetiye.

‘don’t wear your theatre blues,’ it says. his first inclination is to dismiss the gesture and spend the remainder of his day in a mild huff, brooding over the cheekiness of the cunt. but bev keeps the card with him, tracing over the script with his fingertips as though in a trance, and by lunchtime has left home to buy the accompanying flowers a vase.

it feels so farcical to be courted at 48 that he spends his tube journey dreaming up what he thinks will be the real scene: mother mocking and a bucket of pig’s blood dumped over his head? will jayne not be there? will the venue be empty?

he’s wearing his best suit, with one of jayne’s flowers on display in the breast pocket. don’t wear your theatre blues.

and thus he presents himself, perfectly obedient.

“i hope you didn’t expect me to ring you.”

[widwer]

@bluedprints: you're so cruel to me. don't you forget me. eden

beverly's camped in hull for the duration of a london house renovation, the majority of which time he's spent half-pissed and happy in eden's company. on every visit, he behaves as though he's been transported back to the 90s—sunken low into her furniture, speaking more through his teeth and with his hands as he had then, agreeing too readily to indulge in drink and gossip—though he wears obvious signs of having aged. he exists in his daily life quite a few layers out from the earlier iteration he's presenting.

"oh, don't say that," he says without landing the last 't,' lazy in enunciation as he is in his body movements; letting his head loll to one side atop the cushions. "you're just being mardy with us. wouldn't be here if i didn't love you, would i?"

[widwer]

@eyeshone: “i know what you have to do, but let me do it.” joey (alive)

he owes an apology. an on-the-doorstep, from-the-heart apology, or else they’ll stop gifting them quiches. beverly hasn’t quite been viewing it as something he has to do, but perhaps something he ought to do, for the comfort of the household.

he’d have done it if it had remained his, un-reminded, without the connotations of a chore. he’d have let joey do it if the offer in itself didn’t make him feel like a stubborn old man.

which he is.

“i’m wondering if they don’t deserve the silent treatment.” despite his private admission of guilt. “them two like you too much, anyway. wouldn’t change anything if you went.”