What Talk of Music - Demetrius and John
The exhilaration was still burning through him when John rejoined Demetrius, but was fading a little as the moment past, left him chuckling, a little self conscious and shy. There was a hint of a flush to his cheeks that he’d deny to the grave, but whether it was embarrassment or the heat of the room or the energy he just expended, it wasn’t precisely clear. “Thank you,” he replied finally, and when he raised his head, his laughing green eyes met his, a little bashful but genuine.
Ran a hand, trembling lightly, through short sweat-touched hair, and itched for a cigarette. Been going good on his mission to quit, but hell, if he didn’t ache for one right now. The scent of cigarette smoke wasn’t helping.
John took his seat next to him, steadfastly ignoring his craving, and ordered another whisky, savoring the burn that warmed his chest and belly as he took a healthy mouthful. “Yeah,” he asked, lips quirking a touch, gaze warm even though he wasn’t glancing to him again yet, toying with his glass. “Glad you could make it out – nice to have a little new company now and again.”
I’m an EMT medic –
Something icy curled into John’s stomach that took a great deal of effort to keep from his face, and he wagered that he had failed, just a flash of emotion around the eyes. “You work at Stuart,” he asked, casually, he thought, but there was a note to it he couldn’t entirely hide. John didn’t want many people knowing about his little misadventure with Xio. It was bad enough, the fleeting memories of being at death’s door, those little slices of agony, or clearer still, the expression on Quin’s face that would have told him how bad it was. The little incident that gave him just enough of a taste of death to have a proper, intimate fear of it. It was inevitable for him, physically, there was no denying it, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die earlier, or to have this sweet-faced young man have a memory of what he looked like with his ribcage crushed.
His expression cleared a little when the topic turned, glanced back to Demetrius to meet his eyes again, a little more relaxed but with that question still lurking worryingly in the background. “Boxer,” he replied quietly, “under the name of Badger.” It wasn’t completely untrue, and with the ink on his resignation slip to his father’s company drying, he’d prefer not to mention it. Didn’t wasn’t to be judged by who his father was. “Still a performance,” he added, with another hint of a smile, eyes gentling. “Still occasionally spontaneous.”
There was a twinge of empathy in him for Demetrius, an understanding of what it was like to be something you didn’t want to be, to be kept from your passion. “Look, I ain’t ever played the cello,” he told him honestly, softly, “but if you don’t know guitar, I can show you a chord or two.”
