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 THE CALENDER MONTH, jade & samsy
NICHOLI BARRETT
 Posted: Jul 10 2012, 01:17 PM


WRITTEN BY
CANARY

N/A
35 YEARS OLD
german frenchman from england
CO of No. 66 Squadron & REBEL INTEL
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TAG: jade
WORDS: 932
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Time and again boys are raised to be men: impatient they start, fearful at end. But here was a man mourning tomorrow. He drank, but finally drown in his sorrow. He could not brace up his tension. He looked in the wrong place for redemption. Don't look at me with those eyes; i tried to unheave the ties: turn back the time that drew him. But he couldn't be saved: a sadness runs through him, through him.
Well you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make his stubborn ass drink :l CONGRATZ SAM, Now let him drag you out back to the garden to dance... pleeeeeaaase.
This was ridiculous. It was uncomfortable and unnecessary and wholly, entirely Not his area. And yes, it was more than the crisp, starchy smell of his alternating grey suit- and the way his bow tie tugged just wrong at his neck. Because he wasn’t that petty. ( yes. Okay. He was. And yes it was a big part of it ) But ridiculous didn’t begin to cover the extent of his opposition. He’d said no from the very beginning. And not once. Not twice. But more times than he cared to recount, because by now it was all just chatter to Samson’s ears. He knew Sam didn’t listen after a certain point, and Nicholi’s pleads didn’t hold the same affect they’d had the first year they’d known each other.

And of course, just the opposite, Nicholi knew Samson wanted to go. The first few days the invitation had come in the post, Nicholi had ignored it—he wasn’t from Britain. These traditions- even ones as old as this one, and only recently resurrected by his own ( but new to England ) Government- there wasn’t much more than indifference felt towards the event. He’d considered hiding it from Sam—regretted passing it to him in turn for the bills beneath it. Greatly, now; Standing just centre of the doors, lingering back just far enough that he lagged more than a few bodies behind Samson.

Far enough back that if Samson looked back now, he’d have to push through the small crowd that had gathered and clumped between them. But Nic wasn’t out to escape... at least Nicholi didn’t think he was... simply looking for the excuse to stall the whole thing. Down; His shoe was untied. Up; his hair was sticking up funny on one side. Left; the cuff of his dress shirt had snagged against the door and the cufflink hung loosely at the edge. Right; his pant leg folded back awkwardly where he had been bent over to pull on his shoes. Stalling.

There was a flash of uncertainty crossing over his usual confident gate. A quick blink of something that made his gaze dart about to the mass of people. Uncomfortable with the numbers crowding about them. ”Sam... Samson.. I’ve changed my mind—I don’t want to go.” he swallowed stiffly, struggling to make himself heard over the roar and bustle of Dance goers. “This is ridiculous. Look at these people!” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. Almost hitting a few guests who hurried passed on their way in, casting him rude glances as they did. He’d agreed to go, he already knew- after too many days of watching Samson’s hurt glances at the Dance posters plastered to building sides. Or the way his eyes would fall to the floor anytime the giddy chatter of the women would pass them on the streets. Giggling about dresses and men and anything else that inevitably followed the event. But Sam would frown. Miserable as the moment Nicholi had told him no.

And- yes it took more than that. It took time.. But in the kitchen- their kitchen- sometime after he’d come to Nic to be held, silent but damn near tears, he hadn’t needed to say much for Nicholi to understand. A small talk. A few nods. And Sam’s hands were at his face. He’d ran through his pleases and thank you’s. Pressed him back against the counter edge and kissed him senseless. And Nicholi- still a man with needs and temptations- had inevitably given in to the agreement to go himself.

He could regret it now, couldn’t he? Stopping just sort of the door and reaching to tug Samson’s arm back. They weren’t even permitted to go together. They couldn’t dance... Or stand too close... or whisper in ears to keep their conversation to themselves. He could see inside as the doors swung- music fading in and out with the steady flow of party goers moving along its marble floors. There were men and women dancing- swinging. Moving in rhythm and laughing like there was nothing beneath them but the same tradition they’d had in London all their lives. Like the threat couldn’t touch them past these doors.

Though Nicholi knew different. And it was only hope letting him believe that perhaps others did, as well. But they were ignorant- all of them. As far as he could see, they were sheep up for slaughter. Everyone of them who stepped through those doors without a worry in the world but what kind of champagne was being served, or who had the more expensive gown. He’d hidden the last letter, though. The one he’d been expecting the minute he saw who was hosting this dance. If the government was rewarding the rebellion, there’d be a catch. And the HOUNDS, without the drip of a doubt, would be called in for work. And that never excluded him.

The messages were all the same; snoop and keep under radar. Easy enough... if you weren’t attending with someo- if you hadn’t fucked up your duty as it was. He wouldn’t be heading that message. He was here with Samson, and nothing else was going to get to him. Not like that.

His hands were clutching the prim, crisp fabric at Samson's arm ( an outfit Samson had no doubt spent much time on. Just as he had done fussing over Nicholi himself ) tugging him back to himself and swallowing from his dry throat. "Let's go home. Please?" He supposed Sam's appreciation of manners would do little to outweigh the desire to attend. But anything was worth trying... Ooooh. This was a mistake.

impatient they start, fearful at end

^
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