http://incline-mod.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
incline-mod.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
inclineoftrees2007-10-23 10:01 am
incline-mod.livejournal.com) wrote in inclineoftrees2007-10-23 10:01 am
Book 1, Chapter 3: Gentle Bows and Glasses Raised
Title: Gentle Bows and Glasses Raised
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiltsandlollies and the0neru
Characters: Billy, Miranda, Andrew
Rating: PG
Word count: 3160
Summary: An evening of friends at The Noble Bachelor, and the beginnings of a goodbye.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The Noble Bachelor pub's in full if not quite raucous swing this night, its corners packed with small groups of artists, office workers, and the odd clinch of employees from Baskerville, from professors to char ladies to the people Billy’s convinced might actually run the university itself, the secretaries from administration. The music's just low enough that conversations can occur, but not so low that Billy can ignore it and stop his foot from tapping absently under the table to its rhythm. It's when Andrew harmonizes with his fingers against his glass that Billy looks up and laughs and stills his feet before he stands to wave Miranda to their table.
There's a small flurry of welcome between the three of them, and after Billy slides a drink Miranda's way he watches her exhale and lean back in her chair, gazing proudly around the room. The photographs and paintings on the walls around them serve as the featured exhibition of some of Baskerville's brightest talents, and Professor Miranda Otto and her students make up a large part of that exhibition. Andrew's work is displayed here too, but to a lesser extent; most of his time is spent on commercial gigs now as he gathers the wherewithal to go back home to New Zealand and a better, more interesting job in filmmaking there. It's not a topic he and Billy have discussed very much, at least not in the context of what Andrew's move will mean to their barely six months old relationship. That's talk for another time, Billy thinks, once they're closer to Andrew actually leaving. It will happen sooner than he wants to accept, but everything in his life seems to, and Billy's almost as accustomed to it as he is the sound of Andrew's voice, now directed Miranda's way.
"Any takers?" he asks her, business for the moment on his mind as much as pleasure. When Billy snorts beside him, Andrew shrugs and keeps his attention on Miranda. "It's a valid question. Everything looks fantastic, but if all they're doing is looking …"
"Says the man who's already brushed off a buyer."
"That one wasn't for sale," Andrew says, more gently. "'s yours, Billy. Miranda. Am I right? This is great and all, but this isn't hobby work on show."
"No," Miranda agrees, "it isn't. Two of my seniors are using this as a practice run for their juried exhibition in December, so they've both worked themselves into a fine panic over it. They came and helped set up their own sections, which is good experience for them, but I had to make them both sit and have a drink—at two in the afternoon!—before we got started. They were far too wound up to do anything but over-react to any and everything." She nods towards a young woman in a slightly-too-formal dress, standing next to a young man in khakis, a dress shirt and tie. "I should have gotten at least a couple of people to come in and talk to them about their pieces – the people here are going to be much kinder than the judges they'll be facing." She turns back to Andrew: "You hadn't brought yours in yet when I left. Are you showing any new pieces, or are you just trying to keep from having to take things back with you?"
"She's got your number, hasn't she?" Billy laughs, and Andrew has the grace to blush this time.
"A little of both. It'd be nice to get a bit more in my pocket before I go, and if it comes from getting rid of the larger pieces, so much the better." Andrew smirks into his glass for a moment. "Money's lighter on the shipping."
"Even lighter if you've spent it all before you go, which I might have you do." Billy nudges Andrew's elbow and offers him an angelic smile. "Get us another one, yeah?"
To his credit, Andrew doesn't roll his eyes or wonder aloud whether Billy's launching himself into an evening of heavier drinking than they'd planned. Instead he stands as moves through the people around them restlessly, nodding when he hears the cheerful oi, Lesnie, but holding up a hand in apology rather than cross the room and fall into another small group. Billy watches him go until Miranda taps him on the forearm and laughs when he turns, surprised.
"How much longer?" she asks, kindly, and Billy shrugs.
"A few weeks. I don't actually know. I've been trying not to think about it."
"That's got to be some kind of gender default." Miranda smiles and then leans forward a bit across the table. "It'll be a shame to see him go, though; you've both been very happy."
It's a typically Miranda response—direct and kind—and Billy's grateful for it even as it's his turn to blush. "We have. Or at least I like to think so. Happy's more the rule than the exception with him."
"And with you?"
Billy lifts his nearly-empty glass and nods at Miranda. "I am content."
"You're a lot more than that."
"Maybe." Billy finishes off his drink and leans his chin on his hand to drift into his own thoughts for a moment while Miranda turns at the sound of her own name and grins at two students approaching with frozen, terrified smiles on their faces. She’s right, Billy knows; he is more than content with whatever one might call his relationship with Andrew. The man’s unlike any other Billy’s ever known. He’s quick to laugh—quicker still to make Billy laugh—and generous almost to a fault, offering his time and expertise as a photographer at little or no cost to the community of artists and musicians who have found a home around Baskerville. Billy had felt drawn to that community after stumbling into a coffeehouse one night and forgetting the rest of his errands in favor of listening to songs and poems—and watching the man who moved silently around the room photographing it all.
Andrew’s tall, and consistently if unconsciously hunches when standing next to others to compensate for the difference in height. His eyes are bright but nearly always narrowed by the lift of his smile, and his hands are roughened from years of toying with chemicals and cable but nearly always careful—with his cameras and, Billy’s found, his friends.
Andrew’s talent with a camera was only the first thing that had drawn Billy to him, and while their mutual love of photography had cemented their friendship, after two months’ worth of attempts to ignore his growing attraction, Billy had taken a deep breath and put more than a pair of bottles on the table between them one late evening at The Noble Bachelor. After the disastrous run of men and women in his life before he’d come to Baskerville, Billy had felt for the first time in a long while both the ease of falling into bed with someone who expected nothing more or less than he did himself, and the relief of knowing that nothing about Andrew—barring of course his kindness—was likely to overwhelm him. When Andrew has challenged him, mentally or physically, it’s always been with that same Cheshire grin, and never with the undercurrent of malice Billy had come to expect and learned to return from and to others in and out of his bed.
He’s older, too, though not by very much, and Billy’s certain that’s another reason for his comfort in Andrew’s company. Baskerville is working to recruit instructors of Billy’s age, and more will arrive with the next term, but in the meantime, Billy’s content—Billy is happy—with what he has, and tries to dwell as little as possible on the fact that he won’t have it, or Andrew, for much longer. He looks up from his drink now to find Miranda’s smile turned back to him, gently, and her hand half across the table to cover his own. She’s come to know him better than anyone else in this place but Andrew, and she reads him perhaps better than even Andrew does. Before she can speak, Billy coughs and does so himself.
"I noticed you've put out another call for models, Miranda. You'd think this place would be crawling with young people willing to shuck their clothes. Isn't that what university's for? I mean, in between sitting exams and walking around like little malnourished zombies, isn't that what students do?"
Miranda raises her eyebrows and adjusts her shawl around her shoulders. "You must have been a student a long time ago. And I would have liked to have been on that campus."
"I promise you wouldn't," Billy laughs. "Not an attractive bunch, my lot."
"Beauty's in the eye, Billy," she murmurs and tilts her head in the direction of Andrew, returning through the crowd, and Billy nods again as he follows her gaze.
"I suppose so." But just as he's said it, Billy turns back around to Miranda, his face animated. "Now, you. That one picture Andrew got off the other day before you went all Gorgon on him—" Miranda shoots Billy a similar look, and he makes a short, barking cackle that attracts the attention of more than a few people around them. "That, Miranda, that was beautiful. I told him he should've added it here."
"He wouldn't dare—would you, Andrew?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Andrew grins, sliding three new glasses onto the table and settling closer to Miranda this time. "But no, probably not."
Miranda leans back behind Andrew to grab her bag, fishes in it until she finds a deplorably-scribbled piece of paper. "Billy was asking me about models for my sketching classes," she says to Andrew by way of explanation as she taps down the list on the page with a forefinger. "Not counting anything that's come up this afternoon, I have eleven classes over the next two and a half weeks that are now sans a model. And no," she forestalls Andrew's suggestion, "I cannot sit for them myself. Not to mention the difficulty I'd have maintaining control of my students, it would cause all sorts of problems for the model to be getting up wandering around the room every ten minutes. If you have any students you think might be interested in sitting for a class or several, please feel free to mention it anytime next week." She sips at her new drink, taking a few minutes to scan the room checking on her students. Nudging Andrew with her shoulder, she says, "Now if you'd like to come and sit for any of those classes …"
The grin on Billy's face at her proposal is as amusing as the consternation on Andrew's, and Miranda thinks how nice it's been to see Billy so… she sighs, trying to decide what term it is she wants. She's seen the look Billy gets when he thinks no one's watching; this is nearly its opposite, and for that she owes Andrew a debt of gratitude. She leans her head against Andrew's shoulder, smiling across the table at Billy. "We should have gotten some of your shots printed and framed for this show, Billy. Some of the ones from your trip up north would have been perfect for this exhibit."
Billy’s nose and mouth twitch as if he can’t imagine a worse idea. “Mine are just … architecture. Buildings and bridges, and not the ones people want to see.”
“Lot of buildings and bridges in here,” Andrew says, half into his glass, and beneath the table Miranda pushes a pointed toe toward his foot as she smirks.
“Some of them happened to have been assigned, mate.”
“And they’re fantastic,” Billy says crisply. “Better than anything I’ve developed, anyway. Ignore him; he’s a caustic bastard when he’s drinking.”
Andrew snorts. “I’ve learned from the best.”
Miranda waves a hand, pushing the issue to one side cheerfully before she snags a small handful of the short, twiggy pretzels on the table. “Speaking of that. Developing. I see you’re booked for next week in the darkrooms again, Billy. What are you working on now?”
“More buildings, more bridges,” Billy smiles, setting his drink down and leaning across the table a bit. “Churches, actually. Andrew’s taken to calling this The Year of Crumbling Altars.”
“Because you’re obsessed with them,” Andrew laughs. “Well. Not obsessed, but y’do love a good institution brought to its knees by weather and popular opinion.”
“And I’m not disagreeing with you, am I.”
“And no doubt you’ve been out there with your own cameras,” Miranda prods Andrew’s foot again, gently this time. “You have documentaries in your future.”
Andrew shrugs. “That’d be nice, yeah. But it’s not where the work is.”
“It’s not supposed to be just about the work,” Billy says quietly, and Andrew nods quickly, several times, before he knocks nearly half of his drink back.
“Anyway, you’ll have to finish those pictures,” Miranda turns to Billy, her fingers twining with his and tugging in silent sympathy, the only kind she knows Billy can take. “And if you need more time in the darkrooms, tell me and I’ll throw my hands around a lot and get it for you.”
Billy smiles and looks down at their hands. “I—thanks. Thank you.”
“Pictures,” Andrew says then, suddenly, and smacks a hand down on the table happily. “Point me out a decent photographer in your bunch, Miranda.” She blinks and does so, nodding Andrew toward a young woman across the room balancing two cameras in one hand deftly. Andrew strides off in her direction, and Miranda inches her chair closer to Billy’s.
“Whatever else you need, too,” she says quietly, and Billy nods before he looks up, grinning.
“I don’t know that I do need anything, actually; I’m getting a new telly out of this, did I tell you?”
Miranda’s shoulders drop and she shakes her head, quite aware of what Billy’s doing, but willing to let this discussion pass, too, for Billy’s sake. “He’s a good man. And it’s about time; your television’s older than you are.”
“I don’t think they actually had televisions when I was born.”
“I’m certain they didn’t,” Andrew says, coming up behind them with the young woman in tow. The tease leaves his voice as he leans down to Billy’s ear. “Have you got the Minolta?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do, hang on.”
While Billy digs in his briefcase for the late 1970s–model camera Andrew had given him months before, Andrew urges Miranda closer to the center of the table and then steps behind the young woman, directing the shot he wants her to take before the camera’s even in her hands. Billy smiles, remembering Andrew guiding him the same way. He hands the camera over, and the young woman laughs nervously even as she looks thrilled to be holding something she’s never seen before, and more so, to be shown how to use it.
The camera’s one of many things by which Billy will remember Andrew, but it’s become a piece of Billy, too, by virtue of memory: coming back from the Noble Bachelor late on Saturday nights and watching crap movies well into Sunday, and stirring awake long enough to catch Sunday afternoon’s fading light on film as Andrew quietly judged the perfect moment for Billy to take his shot.
They’ve had few weekends like that lately, though, Billy thinks as Miranda’s hand finds his again; from the moment Andrew accepted the job back in New Zealand Billy had felt himself pulling away, and Andrew had understood instinctively that it was the only way Billy could accept—and not come to resent—Andrew’s decision. It’s not as if they’ve come to be more than what Andrew once called (with eyebrows raised and voice gravelly after too many cigarettes) particular friends. They might care for and about one another, but they are in no way in love. They have no obligation to each other beyond than that of friendship, of respect and honesty—all easier things to give and receive than love.
“Still with us?” Miranda asks, nudging Billy lightly as Andrew steps back from the young woman, encouraging her. Billy throws an arm behind Miranda, leaning on the back of her chair, and Miranda leans in to Billy’s other side.
“Still here,” Billy nods and then mock-frowns at Andrew. “Dwelling on my advancing age, as some would clearly have me do.”
“I think he forgets sometimes that he’s actually older than you are.”
“Well, he can’t be blamed for his own senility.”
“I can hear you,” Andrew says lightly, and then curves his hand in the air. “Closer. It’s a time frame, and the light’s not great here.”
Billy and Miranda press closer while the young woman focuses, and then there’s a flash Billy’s learned to not hate burning his eyes. After a few seconds, Andrew slips in beside Billy and Miranda, urging to girl to take another shot, and then several more, while in between shots Andrew tells Billy to remember this and Billy promises silently to do so.
The film runs out before Andrew’s enthusiasm does, and he and the young woman are both called away by potential sales as Miranda and Billy watch, pleased and a bit punchy now. Miranda grabs Billy’s hand and walks him around the pub, pointing out and explaining the work of her students and herself, while Billy wishes fervently for more money and wall space in his small house. Miranda’s work is glorious, as Billy had expected it to be; he understands now why she’s shooed him away from her canvases while they were in process, though he knows that even along the way they would have moved in. He makes a silent promise to himself to commission something from her in the future, if not for himself, then as a gift. They haven’t quite made it back to the table when Andrew finds them again, and his face is flushed with pleasure, thrilling Billy, too.
“You’ve made a sale.”
“I’ve made three.” Andrew grins. “The more they drink, the more they want to buy, apparently.”
“Those pictures would have sold in a church,” Billy says firmly, his eyes slightly narrowed before they relax again. “To a congregation stone sober. Stop telling yourself your work’s rubbish.”
“Oh, I don’t think it is,” Andrew laughs. “But it seems to get better seen through blurry eyes. Doesn’t matter; I’ll take it.”
“Right, a toast.” Miranda claps her hands softly, and they find the table again, reaching for glasses that desperately need finishing off. “To the art of making art.”
“And a little money, too.”
“Would you shut it—“
“And a little money, too,” Miranda echoes Andrew and smiles at Billy. “But most important, to the art of making friends.”
“Amen to that,” Andrew laughs and tips his drink back at the same time as Miranda. Billy watches for a few seconds and then nods, too, raising his glass to his lips.
“Amen.”
Authors:
kiltsandlollies and the0neruCharacters: Billy, Miranda, Andrew
Rating: PG
Word count: 3160
Summary: An evening of friends at The Noble Bachelor, and the beginnings of a goodbye.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
The Noble Bachelor pub's in full if not quite raucous swing this night, its corners packed with small groups of artists, office workers, and the odd clinch of employees from Baskerville, from professors to char ladies to the people Billy’s convinced might actually run the university itself, the secretaries from administration. The music's just low enough that conversations can occur, but not so low that Billy can ignore it and stop his foot from tapping absently under the table to its rhythm. It's when Andrew harmonizes with his fingers against his glass that Billy looks up and laughs and stills his feet before he stands to wave Miranda to their table.
There's a small flurry of welcome between the three of them, and after Billy slides a drink Miranda's way he watches her exhale and lean back in her chair, gazing proudly around the room. The photographs and paintings on the walls around them serve as the featured exhibition of some of Baskerville's brightest talents, and Professor Miranda Otto and her students make up a large part of that exhibition. Andrew's work is displayed here too, but to a lesser extent; most of his time is spent on commercial gigs now as he gathers the wherewithal to go back home to New Zealand and a better, more interesting job in filmmaking there. It's not a topic he and Billy have discussed very much, at least not in the context of what Andrew's move will mean to their barely six months old relationship. That's talk for another time, Billy thinks, once they're closer to Andrew actually leaving. It will happen sooner than he wants to accept, but everything in his life seems to, and Billy's almost as accustomed to it as he is the sound of Andrew's voice, now directed Miranda's way.
"Any takers?" he asks her, business for the moment on his mind as much as pleasure. When Billy snorts beside him, Andrew shrugs and keeps his attention on Miranda. "It's a valid question. Everything looks fantastic, but if all they're doing is looking …"
"Says the man who's already brushed off a buyer."
"That one wasn't for sale," Andrew says, more gently. "'s yours, Billy. Miranda. Am I right? This is great and all, but this isn't hobby work on show."
"No," Miranda agrees, "it isn't. Two of my seniors are using this as a practice run for their juried exhibition in December, so they've both worked themselves into a fine panic over it. They came and helped set up their own sections, which is good experience for them, but I had to make them both sit and have a drink—at two in the afternoon!—before we got started. They were far too wound up to do anything but over-react to any and everything." She nods towards a young woman in a slightly-too-formal dress, standing next to a young man in khakis, a dress shirt and tie. "I should have gotten at least a couple of people to come in and talk to them about their pieces – the people here are going to be much kinder than the judges they'll be facing." She turns back to Andrew: "You hadn't brought yours in yet when I left. Are you showing any new pieces, or are you just trying to keep from having to take things back with you?"
"She's got your number, hasn't she?" Billy laughs, and Andrew has the grace to blush this time.
"A little of both. It'd be nice to get a bit more in my pocket before I go, and if it comes from getting rid of the larger pieces, so much the better." Andrew smirks into his glass for a moment. "Money's lighter on the shipping."
"Even lighter if you've spent it all before you go, which I might have you do." Billy nudges Andrew's elbow and offers him an angelic smile. "Get us another one, yeah?"
To his credit, Andrew doesn't roll his eyes or wonder aloud whether Billy's launching himself into an evening of heavier drinking than they'd planned. Instead he stands as moves through the people around them restlessly, nodding when he hears the cheerful oi, Lesnie, but holding up a hand in apology rather than cross the room and fall into another small group. Billy watches him go until Miranda taps him on the forearm and laughs when he turns, surprised.
"How much longer?" she asks, kindly, and Billy shrugs.
"A few weeks. I don't actually know. I've been trying not to think about it."
"That's got to be some kind of gender default." Miranda smiles and then leans forward a bit across the table. "It'll be a shame to see him go, though; you've both been very happy."
It's a typically Miranda response—direct and kind—and Billy's grateful for it even as it's his turn to blush. "We have. Or at least I like to think so. Happy's more the rule than the exception with him."
"And with you?"
Billy lifts his nearly-empty glass and nods at Miranda. "I am content."
"You're a lot more than that."
"Maybe." Billy finishes off his drink and leans his chin on his hand to drift into his own thoughts for a moment while Miranda turns at the sound of her own name and grins at two students approaching with frozen, terrified smiles on their faces. She’s right, Billy knows; he is more than content with whatever one might call his relationship with Andrew. The man’s unlike any other Billy’s ever known. He’s quick to laugh—quicker still to make Billy laugh—and generous almost to a fault, offering his time and expertise as a photographer at little or no cost to the community of artists and musicians who have found a home around Baskerville. Billy had felt drawn to that community after stumbling into a coffeehouse one night and forgetting the rest of his errands in favor of listening to songs and poems—and watching the man who moved silently around the room photographing it all.
Andrew’s tall, and consistently if unconsciously hunches when standing next to others to compensate for the difference in height. His eyes are bright but nearly always narrowed by the lift of his smile, and his hands are roughened from years of toying with chemicals and cable but nearly always careful—with his cameras and, Billy’s found, his friends.
Andrew’s talent with a camera was only the first thing that had drawn Billy to him, and while their mutual love of photography had cemented their friendship, after two months’ worth of attempts to ignore his growing attraction, Billy had taken a deep breath and put more than a pair of bottles on the table between them one late evening at The Noble Bachelor. After the disastrous run of men and women in his life before he’d come to Baskerville, Billy had felt for the first time in a long while both the ease of falling into bed with someone who expected nothing more or less than he did himself, and the relief of knowing that nothing about Andrew—barring of course his kindness—was likely to overwhelm him. When Andrew has challenged him, mentally or physically, it’s always been with that same Cheshire grin, and never with the undercurrent of malice Billy had come to expect and learned to return from and to others in and out of his bed.
He’s older, too, though not by very much, and Billy’s certain that’s another reason for his comfort in Andrew’s company. Baskerville is working to recruit instructors of Billy’s age, and more will arrive with the next term, but in the meantime, Billy’s content—Billy is happy—with what he has, and tries to dwell as little as possible on the fact that he won’t have it, or Andrew, for much longer. He looks up from his drink now to find Miranda’s smile turned back to him, gently, and her hand half across the table to cover his own. She’s come to know him better than anyone else in this place but Andrew, and she reads him perhaps better than even Andrew does. Before she can speak, Billy coughs and does so himself.
"I noticed you've put out another call for models, Miranda. You'd think this place would be crawling with young people willing to shuck their clothes. Isn't that what university's for? I mean, in between sitting exams and walking around like little malnourished zombies, isn't that what students do?"
Miranda raises her eyebrows and adjusts her shawl around her shoulders. "You must have been a student a long time ago. And I would have liked to have been on that campus."
"I promise you wouldn't," Billy laughs. "Not an attractive bunch, my lot."
"Beauty's in the eye, Billy," she murmurs and tilts her head in the direction of Andrew, returning through the crowd, and Billy nods again as he follows her gaze.
"I suppose so." But just as he's said it, Billy turns back around to Miranda, his face animated. "Now, you. That one picture Andrew got off the other day before you went all Gorgon on him—" Miranda shoots Billy a similar look, and he makes a short, barking cackle that attracts the attention of more than a few people around them. "That, Miranda, that was beautiful. I told him he should've added it here."
"He wouldn't dare—would you, Andrew?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Andrew grins, sliding three new glasses onto the table and settling closer to Miranda this time. "But no, probably not."
Miranda leans back behind Andrew to grab her bag, fishes in it until she finds a deplorably-scribbled piece of paper. "Billy was asking me about models for my sketching classes," she says to Andrew by way of explanation as she taps down the list on the page with a forefinger. "Not counting anything that's come up this afternoon, I have eleven classes over the next two and a half weeks that are now sans a model. And no," she forestalls Andrew's suggestion, "I cannot sit for them myself. Not to mention the difficulty I'd have maintaining control of my students, it would cause all sorts of problems for the model to be getting up wandering around the room every ten minutes. If you have any students you think might be interested in sitting for a class or several, please feel free to mention it anytime next week." She sips at her new drink, taking a few minutes to scan the room checking on her students. Nudging Andrew with her shoulder, she says, "Now if you'd like to come and sit for any of those classes …"
The grin on Billy's face at her proposal is as amusing as the consternation on Andrew's, and Miranda thinks how nice it's been to see Billy so… she sighs, trying to decide what term it is she wants. She's seen the look Billy gets when he thinks no one's watching; this is nearly its opposite, and for that she owes Andrew a debt of gratitude. She leans her head against Andrew's shoulder, smiling across the table at Billy. "We should have gotten some of your shots printed and framed for this show, Billy. Some of the ones from your trip up north would have been perfect for this exhibit."
Billy’s nose and mouth twitch as if he can’t imagine a worse idea. “Mine are just … architecture. Buildings and bridges, and not the ones people want to see.”
“Lot of buildings and bridges in here,” Andrew says, half into his glass, and beneath the table Miranda pushes a pointed toe toward his foot as she smirks.
“Some of them happened to have been assigned, mate.”
“And they’re fantastic,” Billy says crisply. “Better than anything I’ve developed, anyway. Ignore him; he’s a caustic bastard when he’s drinking.”
Andrew snorts. “I’ve learned from the best.”
Miranda waves a hand, pushing the issue to one side cheerfully before she snags a small handful of the short, twiggy pretzels on the table. “Speaking of that. Developing. I see you’re booked for next week in the darkrooms again, Billy. What are you working on now?”
“More buildings, more bridges,” Billy smiles, setting his drink down and leaning across the table a bit. “Churches, actually. Andrew’s taken to calling this The Year of Crumbling Altars.”
“Because you’re obsessed with them,” Andrew laughs. “Well. Not obsessed, but y’do love a good institution brought to its knees by weather and popular opinion.”
“And I’m not disagreeing with you, am I.”
“And no doubt you’ve been out there with your own cameras,” Miranda prods Andrew’s foot again, gently this time. “You have documentaries in your future.”
Andrew shrugs. “That’d be nice, yeah. But it’s not where the work is.”
“It’s not supposed to be just about the work,” Billy says quietly, and Andrew nods quickly, several times, before he knocks nearly half of his drink back.
“Anyway, you’ll have to finish those pictures,” Miranda turns to Billy, her fingers twining with his and tugging in silent sympathy, the only kind she knows Billy can take. “And if you need more time in the darkrooms, tell me and I’ll throw my hands around a lot and get it for you.”
Billy smiles and looks down at their hands. “I—thanks. Thank you.”
“Pictures,” Andrew says then, suddenly, and smacks a hand down on the table happily. “Point me out a decent photographer in your bunch, Miranda.” She blinks and does so, nodding Andrew toward a young woman across the room balancing two cameras in one hand deftly. Andrew strides off in her direction, and Miranda inches her chair closer to Billy’s.
“Whatever else you need, too,” she says quietly, and Billy nods before he looks up, grinning.
“I don’t know that I do need anything, actually; I’m getting a new telly out of this, did I tell you?”
Miranda’s shoulders drop and she shakes her head, quite aware of what Billy’s doing, but willing to let this discussion pass, too, for Billy’s sake. “He’s a good man. And it’s about time; your television’s older than you are.”
“I don’t think they actually had televisions when I was born.”
“I’m certain they didn’t,” Andrew says, coming up behind them with the young woman in tow. The tease leaves his voice as he leans down to Billy’s ear. “Have you got the Minolta?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do, hang on.”
While Billy digs in his briefcase for the late 1970s–model camera Andrew had given him months before, Andrew urges Miranda closer to the center of the table and then steps behind the young woman, directing the shot he wants her to take before the camera’s even in her hands. Billy smiles, remembering Andrew guiding him the same way. He hands the camera over, and the young woman laughs nervously even as she looks thrilled to be holding something she’s never seen before, and more so, to be shown how to use it.
The camera’s one of many things by which Billy will remember Andrew, but it’s become a piece of Billy, too, by virtue of memory: coming back from the Noble Bachelor late on Saturday nights and watching crap movies well into Sunday, and stirring awake long enough to catch Sunday afternoon’s fading light on film as Andrew quietly judged the perfect moment for Billy to take his shot.
They’ve had few weekends like that lately, though, Billy thinks as Miranda’s hand finds his again; from the moment Andrew accepted the job back in New Zealand Billy had felt himself pulling away, and Andrew had understood instinctively that it was the only way Billy could accept—and not come to resent—Andrew’s decision. It’s not as if they’ve come to be more than what Andrew once called (with eyebrows raised and voice gravelly after too many cigarettes) particular friends. They might care for and about one another, but they are in no way in love. They have no obligation to each other beyond than that of friendship, of respect and honesty—all easier things to give and receive than love.
“Still with us?” Miranda asks, nudging Billy lightly as Andrew steps back from the young woman, encouraging her. Billy throws an arm behind Miranda, leaning on the back of her chair, and Miranda leans in to Billy’s other side.
“Still here,” Billy nods and then mock-frowns at Andrew. “Dwelling on my advancing age, as some would clearly have me do.”
“I think he forgets sometimes that he’s actually older than you are.”
“Well, he can’t be blamed for his own senility.”
“I can hear you,” Andrew says lightly, and then curves his hand in the air. “Closer. It’s a time frame, and the light’s not great here.”
Billy and Miranda press closer while the young woman focuses, and then there’s a flash Billy’s learned to not hate burning his eyes. After a few seconds, Andrew slips in beside Billy and Miranda, urging to girl to take another shot, and then several more, while in between shots Andrew tells Billy to remember this and Billy promises silently to do so.
The film runs out before Andrew’s enthusiasm does, and he and the young woman are both called away by potential sales as Miranda and Billy watch, pleased and a bit punchy now. Miranda grabs Billy’s hand and walks him around the pub, pointing out and explaining the work of her students and herself, while Billy wishes fervently for more money and wall space in his small house. Miranda’s work is glorious, as Billy had expected it to be; he understands now why she’s shooed him away from her canvases while they were in process, though he knows that even along the way they would have moved in. He makes a silent promise to himself to commission something from her in the future, if not for himself, then as a gift. They haven’t quite made it back to the table when Andrew finds them again, and his face is flushed with pleasure, thrilling Billy, too.
“You’ve made a sale.”
“I’ve made three.” Andrew grins. “The more they drink, the more they want to buy, apparently.”
“Those pictures would have sold in a church,” Billy says firmly, his eyes slightly narrowed before they relax again. “To a congregation stone sober. Stop telling yourself your work’s rubbish.”
“Oh, I don’t think it is,” Andrew laughs. “But it seems to get better seen through blurry eyes. Doesn’t matter; I’ll take it.”
“Right, a toast.” Miranda claps her hands softly, and they find the table again, reaching for glasses that desperately need finishing off. “To the art of making art.”
“And a little money, too.”
“Would you shut it—“
“And a little money, too,” Miranda echoes Andrew and smiles at Billy. “But most important, to the art of making friends.”
“Amen to that,” Andrew laughs and tips his drink back at the same time as Miranda. Billy watches for a few seconds and then nods, too, raising his glass to his lips.
“Amen.”
no subject
no subject
You know it. <3