RP: Fill To Me The Parting Glass Who: Robb McLellan and Jon Snow When: 14 August 2013 Where: 915 South Van Ness, Santa Ana, Ca. Status: Complete Word Count: 4,141
“We're drinking.”
Official announcement chimed in unexpectedly between tracks as Brand New Cadillac faded to Jimmy Jazz over the sitting room's prized JBL's. Scritch of needle sunk deep into London Calling grooves politely accompanied clatter of Oban and tumblers as Jon placed evening’s bar service upon the coffee table.
Dressed for a long afternoon in of watching shit television and enjoying some easy-listening music, he wore a roomy pair of grey lounge bottoms; direct contrast to the black wife-beater testing seam's tension limits stretched across his chest. The outfit made for perfect wallowing, as did the mound of throw pillows unceremoniously chucked to softest Berber rug in front of the hearth, for if today was about anything, it was wallowing in high style.
“Come on, then,” urged with a tug to lover's baby toe, barely visible between the cracks of sofa cushions. “On the ground with me.”
Robb had been in a funk - deservedly, the poor bloke - well on a week now and try as Jon did to support and ease boyfriend past the anniversary of his father's death, cheering up remained off the menu. Course after course form of allowing Robb space to grieve, endless cups of barely sipped tea, cuddle sessions and distraction techniques served up and untouched despite tempting scents wafting through the gloomy air.
Jon knew he was shit at this coddling business. Insular to the extreme, he preferred a no questions asked approach but there was something intrinsically painful, standing by and merely observing his man spiral into darkness. A niggling insistence squirming in his gut to plan and do, relieve Robb of his burden because Jon's shoulders were infinitely better suited to carrying the weight of the world.
Funny that. Maybe now he understood a little better how Robb felt whenever Jon balled up tighter than a frightened hedgehog.
“Please, Robb? Your mum said this was your father's favourite,” he enthused, pouring glasses several fingers deep and offering one to his resistant babe. “Aside from the family scotch, of course," but those bottles are long gone, too. "Let's have a toast, yeah? And you can tell me all about him."