A/N: the museum date is finally here ;v; I'm sorry it's so late and I took so long with it! It's a pretty lengthy chapter despite the fact that it's only one scene but it's heavy on fireboy's thoughts and dialogue. A whole lot of it is ambiguous (as Leroy's POV tends to be) so there are tiny clues here and there but it you don't catch them, they'll be revealed later on anyway. BUT IF U DO then I suppose it's an added treat! As it always is with my readers who are used to my language and foreshadowing. Enjoy!
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It usually starts with him talking. The slow kind of talk; long and lost in the waves that keep on coming. The ones that lap against the shores and touch the tips of your toes before retreating, as though shy of having travelled a little too far from its original body. Then he's sitting on that outdoor recliner with a cup of tea in his hands and the fireworks behind his head, blooming in the sky and I can't hear what he's saying but I know it's something nice. I start to smell him. The faint scent of chamomile and paper in the breeze. Crisp and warm like vanilla and cinnamon and he's close. We're not sitting anymore. We're standing on the edge of something and this is when he says goodbye and I try to stop him from falling only to fall myself. And then, we both fall and its dark; I feel him in my arms and the wind, the breeze, it becomes a bed and his fingers they sink into the sheets every time I look into his eyes and watch them melt under the heat, under my gaze, with cheeks dusted red, he shivers. Like ripples on the surface.
Stirred.
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It was beside me when I woke. I forget to put it away sometimes, after returning home at six in the morning with barely any energy left to think and heading straight for the bed with just enough to move one hand. That, and one brain cell for imagination, I guess. Which I was able to live with ever since I started clocking in seventy-two-hour shifts. You'll be surprised—the wonders one hand and one brain cell can work once combined.
I remember Jaeger saying that one time: 'No one's really ever too tired to jerk off.' The first couple of weeks into the job, I didn't believe him. Things gradually changed. I adapted to the lifestyle. The one hand; the one braincell.
I checked the time. It was twelve... another hour till the end of his class. We'd agreed to meet in front of the west entrance but knowing him, he'd probably have to Uber down without lunch just to get there on time. I could get there early and grab him a bite.
I thought of staying in bed for another ten to fifteen but there was a ton of laundry to do and if the academy drilled anything into my head, it was the importance of chores. So I got up, washed, and put on some pants before heading downstairs. Chicken was there, waiting by his bowl with his tail going off the charts. For some reason, he always seemed to know when exactly to leave me alone. Which was every time I was in the mood for imagination.
I filled his bowl and gave him a couple of deserving pats, then got out my laptop for some background noise on YouTube. Mainly firefighting memes and people blowing up their kitchens. Occasionally Hell's Kitchen because the shouting was fun and animal documentaries because deer.
The duffel bag of dirty laundry I'd brought back from the firehouse was sorted in a minute and then tossed into the machine by batches. I stood by with a box of cereal while waiting. And then actually figured out the need for a bowl and milk.
"Joining us today is two-star-Michelin chef and owner of the restaurant that makes the best lobster ravioli, Siegfried C—" I hit the spacebar to pause on auto play before clicking away. Some random intro of a new Nikon camera body.
I passed the rest of the hour with dumbbells and my phone, searching up the museum's vicinity for a good takeout that would satisfy someone with a tongue like his. Wasn't easy. The Asian takeout chains here weren't exactly up to the standards he was used to, for the matter.
Checked the time; jumped into the shower and stood in front of the closet, butt-naked, for five minutes with no clue what the fuck I should be wearing. It had to be decent. What do people wear to museums anyway.
The closet was sparse. Five-tops-two-bottoms sparse. I spent most of my time at the firehouse and off days... at the firehouse. Either way, there was never a need to be out of the standard t-shirt every one of us owned, and the odd jobs I ran weren't the kind that required decent dressing. Driving around. Delivery service. Food photography, but only if they paid well and I was in a good mood.
Last time, I'd let him down showing up in a t-shirt and jeans to fine dining. Not that he raised it or anything, but I guess it would be sort of an unspoken rule to follow the dress code of the restaurant he'd invited me to. Museums though.
I considered Googling.
Then realized how stupid that thought sounded and ended up settling for something in the middle. Black button-down and dress pants I used to wear when I was still working at a bar a couple of streets down the firehouse. Add a padded windbreaker over that and I was ready to go.
"I'll be back before dinner." Chicken sat by the doorway, eyes on the frisbee dangling from the coat hanger. "We'll play downstairs then, okay?" Well-deserved pats later, I was out in the chill, grabbing my helmet from the locker and heading down Denmark Hill up to Camberwell in a couple of minutes.
It took me circles to realize that the museum he wanted to visit wasn't the one with the big-ass whale bones dangling from the ceiling. It was the one right beside it. Not gonna lie, I always thought they were the same thing.
After parking my bike at a bunch of lots near the university down the street, I made my way up and headed in the vague direction of the station, just drawing from my memory of the routes we tended to take on the truck.
Across the street, I could make out several options. Wasabi, a takeout chain that was a poor representation of Japanese cuisine. Pret a Manger, an ordinary café chain. A Five Guys; a Leon's. They were all chains. But my best bet was the last option at satisfying a tongue like his and so I made the decision in a snap and got him the aioli chicken hot box.
On my way back to where we were supposed to be meeting, I passed a place selling pastel de natas. They looked good.
"Hi how can I help you?" The inside of the store was cramped. Made it seem authentic. Less commercialized.
I opted for a box of four originals and the lady at the counter turned to where they a new batch cooling on a rack to retrieve four fresh pastel de natas.
"Would you like to try our new apple and cinnamon flavour?" She asked while I was pulling out my wallet. Pausing gave her the opportunity to present quarter bites on a tray, which she offered. Would've been a waste on me, so I turned her down. She looked upset. I told her it had nothing to do with the pastry.
"I just don't eat sweets."
She seemed slightly little comforted, then humored me by suggesting she create a savory recipe for pastel de natas instead. A savory pastel de nata wouldn't exactly be deserving of its name, but I knew she meant well. I left the store with the pastries and hot box in a paper bag.
You and Braised Chicken
I'm early.
Which is a miracle considering the fact that it's a Saturday and the traffic should be absolutely horrendous
Where u?
I'm across the street
From the entrance
Is that so? I'm making my way to the entrance as well.
ETA 1:45.
The weather's more indecisive than I thought—there's no telling when it'll rain. Let's hurry.
5 mins? lol
Where'd the guy drop u off?
At a side entrance, I suppose.
It's rather chilly today. I hope you haven't been waiting for very long.
Would you like to head on in first without me?
I came up to the street I mentioned in our text and looked up from the screen of my phone to cross when he came right into view—dressed sexy in a turtleneck that was dark against his skin and an open coat, standing at the opposite end of the light looking down at his phone. It wasn't like him to miss the fact that it was the west entrance he'd been dropped off at. The one we were supposed to be meeting in front of.
Park was the one who suggested it; saying something along the lines of it having less of a queue and there being nothing wrong with starting near the gift shop. Surprisingly, everyone else in the firehouse had gone museum-hopping with their dates at least once in their lifetime. Surprising only because the bunch of us were adrenaline junkies and museums weren't exactly... yeah.
We met in the middle. Him with his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone whilst crossing the street and me, cutting him off for fun.
"Oh sorry I—" He looked up and into my eyes. I held back the amusement making its rounds in my head.
"Should I tell your uncle you text while crossing the road?"
"Good god, Leroy, hold on—where? Which... I thought we were supposed to meet on the other end."
"That's the main entrance. This one has a shorter queue." I nodded towards the one we were headed for. He turned to follow.
"I-is that so? Well," he sounded flustered. I connected the dots. Technically speaking, this was our first arrangement spent outside school or family gatherings. Meals didn't count. "I see. You're less of a museum beginner than I thought." That would explain his nerves. And the missed entrance.
My reasons were a lot less complicated.
"I've been waiting to see the Devonshire Hunting Tapestries for quite some time now. I believe they are located on the second floor of the North Court. And and the size of it! Elephants, judging by the measurements provided. And the Trajan Column. A monumental feat of electrotyping in the 19th Century... oh yes," he paused all of a sudden, stopping just beyond the glass doors of the entrance. "Are you hungry? Um, so, I was certain breakfast wasn't a thing that existed in your realm of... your realm. I got you a steak sandwich from the school's café. They're student-made. Just like the ones back in our school. I hope it is to your taste."
I watched him hold up a craft bag, hiding the tips of his ears by pretending to adjust the back-end of his spectacle frames. Slowly, I raised the paper bag in my left hand—Leon's laid out in print. With the box of pastel de natas inside. He took one look and that and actually squinted in confusion.
"Leon's. Ah... so you got yourself lunch?"
I fought the urge to flick his forehead. "It's for you, dumbass."
"O-oh." His ears turned several shades darker. "What an intriguing circumstance that has so, um, strangely turned out rather nicely. We each bought lunch for the other! But how did you know I haven't, well, had my lunch?"
Tapped the side of my head. "Genius, remember?"
He seemed to lighten up; the look in his eyes softening to gentle waves.
"Relax, by the way," I held the door open. "I'm as nervous as you are but I'm understanding less of your vocabulary than usual so calm the fuck down or you'd be speaking French by the time we're ten minutes into paintings of naked people."
Needless to say, he was reduced to a little mess. It reminded me of a time that was long ago—when I was fireworks and he was rain.
*
We sat on a bench under a tree in the courtyard. They called it a garden. There was a fountain in the middle, and the open space was in the middle of the building itself with a couple of kids running around, chased by their parents or running into others having their lunch on the grassy areas of the courtyard. The steak sandwich he got me wasn't too bad. I guess Le Cordon Bleu had to keep their standards decent, somehow. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the hot box I got him.
Conversation was lukewarm to touch. Not stale; just lukewarm. It felt different from the night at the restaurant, almost awkward in a sense that neither of us were relaxed without the help of alcohol and had too much reason and mind to be lowering our guard. He asked about firefighting. I listened to an explanation of the course syllabus he'd planned for his students. He asked about the dangers. I told him I was alive.
"Medical emergencies, mostly." I wasn't sure if he felt the same. "Fires are rare."
"Have I ever told you how my mother died?" He dropped out of nowhere, all of a sudden, dabbing the corners of his lips with a napkin upon finishing his meal. The empty box on his lap. I paused, scrunching up the papers that had held the sandwich together and placing it aside.
"No."
"It was a fire," he said. "We lived in a place that was old and rent was cheap. My uncle told me there was a gas leak and or neighbor downstairs was a smoker. It wouldn't have spread so quickly in every other circumstance but the building had wood trusses and most of the interior finishing was covered in woodwork. Highly combustible, as you would know. And my mother was a writer, so naturally, our apartment would be filled with books and papers. The windowsills had accumulated so much dirt and dust over the years that they barely opened a quarter of the way. You'd think she died from carbon monoxide poisoning—as some fifty to eighty percent of fire victims do—but they said she was burned alive, trying to save her books and manuscripts.
"Of course, I was wrapped up in a wet towel and put somewhere... somewhere safe, I presume. Hm. Somehow I feel like I've recounted this incident in a distant past. Although that would be rather unlikely, considering the fact that I never really... well. Never really had someone to tell. N-not saying that Si Yin isn't... and Violet, of course, but... family is a different matter entirely. Needless to say, anyone would be horrified at my seeming indifference towards my mother burning alive. I prefer not to speak about it. But what was I trying to say, exactly? That um... that had it not been for the firefighters who arrived at the scene back then, I wouldn't be here enjoying a decent meal in a museum I've been so dying to visit, listening to the fountain and the children and the autumn breeze, having this conversation. With you."
He looked up and held my gaze then. "So perhaps what I'm trying to say is that, well, Leroy. I think I quite like the choice that you made. I certainly don't mind it. And I certainly do not wish for you to think that I'm unhappy or dissatisfied with the person you've become. Just, um. Just in case you are of that opinion, that is." He looked away. Ears red.
He'd do this quite often; even back then. Just drop things out of nowhere that were far, far deeper than I imagined a mind so guarded with reason and intellect would go. It was the him that opted to be vulnerable in front of the flame that I used to be that I'd missed and here he was, doing it again.
"Annie said the same thing about you."
"Sorry?"
I stared up at the gaps between the leaves of the tree. Strange. The sky wasn't grey. "When I told Annie about fire academy, laughed and said her opinion shouldn't matter. Then she asked about you." The sky was always grey. "And I told her I was afraid of giving it all up—the common ground we had. If we'd even have any reason to talk if I had nothing to do with the culinary world."
His eyes softened and so did his voice. "And that was... I suppose, six years ago?"
"Yeah."
"And her response to you was... what I'd just said about the um..."
"Yeah."
He paused, and that was when I felt his eyes on me. I met them sideways. "Your mother must know me better than I know myself." A smile. Resigned. "Even now, I am no expert at expressing myself. No one is, really. At the very least, I hope you understand where I'm coming from."
Minutes ago, I thought I missed this. The implication that 'this' was the same as before but it wasn't. He and I, we'd grown and walked paths that would diverge, further and further apart so much so that it would take much, much more than before to have them meet again. Side by side.
To go back to what we were was regression. And as much as learning about someone was no easy feat, re-learning them was even harder than I thought.
Physicality was the easiest to take in despite being the most obvious, observable change. He had in my dreams grown as I did; a product of vivid imagination and somehow, the ability to picture a seventeen, nineteen, twenty-year-old version of him. The media had eyes on him, for sure, but angles and distance did little to shape an accurate image. The real-life, twenty-two-year-old version exceeded expectations of what I'd come to regard as an idealized version of him. And even then, for him to not disappoint... guess it explains the updated information appearing in my head every night since his return.
He'd reverted to speaking about his experience with settling down in London.
"—and Chip, too. Miss Rachel has been kind enough to send me details of an executive car hire company with top-notch chauffeurs. But Xander advised against that and said it would be far more reasonable to rent one and drive myself around, considering the rates of these hires. Atlas got himself a decent SUV quite recently, in fact. After receiving his driver's license. I've been wondering how he affords these things, really. Chip refuses to tell me."
I knew. I'd come across an illustration on Twitter that looked dangerously familiar a couple of years ago and thought nothing of it until the artist shared a photo of his workstation and I noticed the entire set of soapstone figurines on his desk. The ones Vanilla got for Chip's family while we were in Brazil for SOY. Easily, you could work out my reason for following him.
"You converted your license yet?"
"No, actually," he packed up and stood. "So admittedly, that would render Xander's advice irrelevant. The car hire Miss Rachel recommended allows you to pop by for a viewing of their vehicles. I was thinking of doing that tomorrow."
We headed back into the museum and picked up a map. The first thing he did was narrow in on the Tapestry Room. I let him lead the way.
"They let you pick the exact ride you want to be driven around in?"
He nodded, following the signs as we made our way to his desired starting point. "Yes, actually. Like Miss Rachel said—the service is top-notch. Here, take the map. See if there's anything that interests you. We'll map out the optimal route for our limited time here and hopefully be able to cover the exhibits we'd both like to see. Otherwise, well... there's um... there's always another day. We could come back." He glanced my way.
I didn't know how to feel about what he said.
We got to the tapestries and the room was probably the size of a football field. A couple of benches stretched out in the middle of the room for those who liked to sit and stare at carpets. They weren't carpets. They just smelled like carpets. I sat with him while he admired the artwork with a dreamy look in his eyes. It was quite the artwork. That look in his eyes.
We walked around after; him in a daze from the tapestries and gazing at the paintings in silence while I stood beside and repeated the appreciation of his interest. Past the paintings was the hall of jewelry. It seemed slightly more understandable—the fact that these could actually be valued in a way that the general public could comprehend, at least. The gems were cool but he seemed more interested in their history than the fact that they were shiny.
I have to admit: without him here, I could see how the entire building wouldn't interest someone like myself on an ordinary circumstance. Somewhere along the way, he'd taken it upon himself to read the descriptions aloud, to me, primarily, as though I hadn't the energy to even look at the labels (quite true), adopting the role of a private little guide.
"Ah! Fashion," he had to adjust his glasses at the remark, completely in the zone. "Houses the largest and most comprehensive collection of dress in the world, I heard. I hope they aren't exaggerating. I am looking forward to the 17th century gowns and post-war couture. The mere shape of the mantua dress fascinates me." Watching his eyes sparkle like a pool on a warm summer afternoon was somehow satisfying.
This one was fun because I could actually see how ridiculous and fancy people used to look on the streets. It helped that they were 3D. Meaning they weren't paintings or pictures but actual, manifested shit.
They even had a furniture collection not far away. Victorian. Or stuff from way before. It was meant to introduce the kind of lifestyle people used to lead and the sort of interior designs that were in trend at the time. They even had exhibits featuring the types of beds that used to exist.
Four-poster ones. With the curtains and all that shit. The classy ones, owned by the rich or mostly from hotels from those times, were the size of two queens combined. Or bigger. They could easily fit eight people side by side and I was pretty much convinced that the people back then were into... yeah.
Him on the other hand, was in awe of its size and woodwork.
"But what's the purpose of having a slab of wood over your head?" I asked. Genuine. "And the four pillars."
"Posters, you mean?"
"Yeah that. And the curtains." We moved on to the next exhibit after he seemed decently satisfied from admiring the embroidery on the quilt. "Wouldn't it annoy them? To have the entire frame creaking and moving around. When they have sex. Like what if it collapses?"
He had to stop in his tracks and give me a look of embarrassment.
"Wow Leroy, I never knew you had the capacity for question-asking, let alone such questions of intellect and critical thought!" He bonked me on the head. Doesn't help that the word meant something else here. "There is structural integrity in frames like these and four-poster beds were developed for several practical reasons. Bedrooms often had draughts and could be cold at night: the curtains could be closed to help keep the occupant of the bed warm."
"Oh okay." I took some time to get the gears running but soon found myself back at square one. "But that doesn't mean the thing doesn't creak a fuck ton when they—"
We arrived at statues. He called them casts and while I wasn't about to doubt his vocabulary (the map said 'cast courts' anyway), I was pretty sure they looked like ordinary statues.
Once again, I was back at it with the confusion. This is why no one should ever have me as their museum-going companion. My private little guide possessed exceptional patience. How he'd even thought of having our first date be a trip to the museum seven years ago was unthinkable.
Basically, I was not making the connection between nude statues and nude humans. "So statues can be naked out in the open for everyone to see but some dude posing on the road gets arrested?" Not that I'd do it. Just didn't make any sense to me and it wasn't something that crossed my mind in twenty-three years of living.
He seemed used to it—almost as though he'd expected the question from having experienced two-three hours of mediocre confusion. "The logic is obvious, Leroy. That thing isn't alive. An unclothed human being on the streets however, is."
I frowned. "Alive or not, dicks are out."
"Y-yes well, but, a statue is a mere replica of the... so, that part would not necessarily be an accurate depiction of—"
"Someone's dick might look exactly like that and you'd be offending them." I mused. "Not afraid of offending someone whose dick may look exactly like that?"
A look was what I received in return but the reward was, too, the tiny laugh he'd let slip in the midst of doing so. He once to hide it and regain his composure. "Good god Leroy, you are still the hopeless idiot I know. Is it so hard for you to appreciate any form of art?"
He'd meant it as a passing remark; something he thought I wouldn't pick up on which he would have been right, if it was the me from back then he was speaking to but I wasn't that me. I asked when we stopped in front of a duo model. Sculptures that were created as a pair labelled Truth and Falsehood, Valour and Cowardice.
"What makes it art?"
He turned. "Sorry?"
"What makes this art," I nodded at the sculpture. "Or that." The one beside it. And the others beside and behind. "Why are these in here and other statues... I don't know. Out there?"
He gave the question serious consideration; as he often did no matter its weight. His answers were always well-thought out and purposeful in meaning. He didn't disappoint.
"Because of their history, I suppose. And well, some of these statues require great expertise in their craft to create and, sometimes, they are here because they represent something of greater meaning that the curators believe worth... appreciating or preserving. As art." He looked up at the sculpture that rose above us by a couple of feet. "Or simply because they are... beautiful."
Would've been fine if we left it there but I guess it struck a chord. "How do you decide if something is worth preserving or not? So there's a limit to what we should be appreciating?"
He seemed surprised by my continuing of this conversation; but that part of me, he should be familiar with. I was never one to back down from a little more.
"In art, perhaps, yes," he was hesitant. "There is a branch of philosophy by the name of aesthetics; defined narrowly as the theory of beauty. I'm... sure it has something to do with that. The curators would know what is beautiful objectively, and what isn't. In the sense of higher art... which is different from our commonplace concept of beauty as subjective. There are pieces of work that can and should be, universally, considered beautiful. For them, beauty does not necessarily lie in the eye of the beholder." He finished, despite having struggled to do so.
A respectable trait of his.
"You?" I looked at him sideways. "How do you decide if something is worth preserving?"