Hesitant at first, Robb eventually curled long, slender fingers around proffered tumbler. Smooth and cool and weighted just right so that when a person held expensive cut crystal they not only enjoyed spirit contents to the fullest but also tactile sensations of a really well designed drinking vessel. Trust Jon to pull out the good stuff for such an occasion - a West Highland Scotch whiskey that was neither too sweet or too smoky, but very comfortably settled somewhere in the middle. The fourteen year malt chosen was Robb's favorite from homeland distillery and it brought about a tiny, but sad smile for all Jon's careful efforts.
He knew what his lover was trying to do; attempting the nigh on impossible if truth be told. Robb didn't want to be this way, didn't want to be such a glum, gloomy thing skulking round the house like some long-forgotten spectre but he couldn't help himself. He'd tried so very hard the past little while to be more like his normal self but it felt wrong somehow. Like he'd be doing his late father a great disservice if he showed any joy or lightheartedness.
Dark clouds had parted briefly now and again, though, giving him wee glimpses of sunlight in an otherwise shadowy existence, all thanks to Jon. He absolutely hated it but felt compelled to remain quiet and reflective for the time being. He owed his father that much, he reckoned, to keep the memory alive through various recollections or viewing old, fading photographs and listening to certain albums with a few tears peppering the mix throughout.
Eventually he'd come out of this god-awful misery, then promptly kick himself that he'd been too distracted and not at all in the mood to take full advantage of Jon modeling the latest in 'come fuck me' wear. Second-skin cling paired with thin cotton trousers never failed any other time to bring out Robb's more wolfish tendencies. A tempting sweetie that beckoned but his mind was elsewhere, far too caught up in the past to notice much about the present, or his boyfriend reclining so snug and cozy against an Arabian Nights-esque mountain of cushions.
"Up until this album came out, Abbey Road was his number one...."
"He used to sing 'Octopus's Garden' to me at bedtime when I was a very young lad. Always thought that was the funniest thing in the world. Made me laugh every time - especially when he acted out the song with a felt octopus puppet Mum made..."
Sprawled on his side, head propped on an open palm, Robb peered into the depths of his drink, recalling a hundred other such childhood vignettes and interactions. Committing lyrics - everything from The Beatles to Cream, Bowie, James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Dylan, The Stones, The Kinks, Van Morrison…the list stretched longer than a regulation football pitch - as easily as any nursery rhyme. It’s when the audiophile bug had first bitten tender flesh, and there'd been no going back.