bakerstreet | snow is nice

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snow is nice

❄ it's quiet
and the snow's beautiful tonight

snowfall;

stage i; none, streets are already blanketed in white.
stage ii; very light and intermittent.
stage iii; light - moderate. lasts longer periods.
stage iv; continuous, heavy snowfall.
stage v; the hardest of cores - blizzards, snowstorms, you name it.

scenarios;

① fuck the police, this is the best time for a walk. hope you've got a nice thick coat on.
② stranded in the buttcrack of nowheresville? weren't you watching the time? now you've gone and missed that last bus out of there. or maybe you're lost, somehow. what do?
③ literally chilling, in this weather, is quite easy to do. sitting around relaxing in it is a wee more difficult, but sometimes much more enjoyable, especially if shelter can be found. the snow is beautiful to watch, after all.
④ the weather's not going to stop you. your snow fort's packed full of ammo and ready to go. those aren't snow angels over there; they mark where the poor souls you've downed have fallen. be careful with that snowman's head!!
⑤ you're about fifty miles from civilization but there's a roof over your head, so never mind the chilly draught, right? right. you mightn't be the only one lucky enough to stumble upon this little shelter, though. remember to share the blanket.
⑥ everyone stuck outside should be jelly. you've got a fireplace and hot cocoa and damn if it isn't awesome. a heater's not quite so romantic, but it'd do. there'd better be a backup generator in case the power trips.
⑦ mix and match, or make up your own.

- from krystaliske@memebells

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[ Benedict is quite ready to say he is absolutely not precious. He's a man of seven-and-twenty and he can handle himself well enough, thank you kindly, but he has no response to it. The fact is, he absolutely would take a carriage, but when he realized the night would run late and the weather was turning, he'd sent a letter off to let the driver know not to bother. No point, Benedict thought, in putting the poor man out by keeping him up.

Instead, he latches on to Kit being positively petulant, even if endearingly so. ]

Don't be absurd. How are you meant to see me home safely if you happen to be the one freezing to death in a gutter? You ought to know, I'm not above lying to George about your conduct.

[ There's a moment when he thinks to chase Kit down. A few quick steps and he'd likely catch up before Kit gets much chance to turn around and run proper, but someone has to behave like an adult, surely. ]

What shall I tell him, I wonder?

[Because Benedict can see his expression plainly at this angle and his obnoxious teasing will not be silenced by any man, not even a viscount's son, Kit merely looks on and lets his eyebrows speak for him, rising and falling in deliberate challenge. Would you now?

It's all in good; perhaps Benedict doesn't realize that in itself is a gift more than worth losing a scarf for. There are moments when he isn't sure how to begin casting off the heavy mantle of melancholy on his shoulders, or even where to begin, but there are other moments Benedict bristles with toothless indignation with flurries landing in his hair and he forgets to be sad.]

Are you asking the storyteller for suggestions? I could come up with a few diabolical charges he'd believe. And I prefer the ending be more dramatic and a touch out of the ordinary--a pleasant sleigh ride turned horrific accident, maybe.

[No, he absolutely does not intend to be an adult, but at least his backward march lasts only so long until his own jesting sparks a different thought. He stops abruptly, and perhaps there is something diabolical in the way an idea lights his eyes.]

Even better. How do you feel about the risk of drowning?

Edited 2021-04-11 04:39 (UTC)

[ Benedict rolls his eyes good naturedly. At the very least, Kit stops walking, and Benedict swoops in to take the opportunity to return the scarf. The question has Benedict raising his eyebrows while he wraps the scarf back around Kit's neck. ]

Like any sane person, I feel quite against it.

[ He flattens down the ends of the scarf, making it easier to tuck into Kit's coat - because Benedict is absolutely doing up the undone buttons. Perhaps in another life, he'd have made a very good valet. ]

And I don't much care for the look on your face at the moment.

[Hung by a noose hadn't been on the list, but in a blink he's being strung about the neck, waylaid by a truer form of gentlemanly spirit than the one he'd been purporting to have. Whether on account of the liquor or the unnecessary need to make all of his buttons match, he looks down to watch the proceedings like he can't quite divine why they're occurring to his person (that's not feeling the cold too badly yet, he'd say).

A valet, possibly--or a giftwrapper, for all the trussing and tucking he's doing. All that's missing is to straighten his collar and Benedict will have earned his maternal nanny stripes. Kit has to bite off a smile that, at this range, could be mistaken for mockery when in fact he can't help but feel a kindle of laughing fondness for someone who could hire a legion of men for the task he's now stopped them in the street to do.

He murmurs his one-word assessment:]

Fussy.

[But it's there in his gaze as he slides his attention back to Benedict's face: the light of laughter this time and the unspoken thank you.]

Now that you've warded me against the snow, I feel confident we'd survive a detour. Have you been to the Thames yet? The market would be something to see at night.

[If Mr. Bridgerton isn't in a hurry for that escort home, that is.]

[ Another fact that Benedict can’t deny.

In all truth, he likes the sort of roguish manner with which Kit carries himself. It suits him, Benedict thinks, and were it not for the late hour and the chill in the air, he’d have been more than fine with letting Kit carry on scarf-less and unbuttoned.

Even if receiving the scarf had sparked another kind of warmth in Benedict.

He meets Kit’s gaze with a fond smirk. ]

It’s certainly not as if I have anything to rush home for.

[ He hasn’t been, of course he hasn’t. It’s a bit out of the way for the aristocracy of Mayfair. ]

It would seem I’m at the mercy of your whims.

[Their gazes lock and Kit isn't the first to look away, making a brazen, inscrutable study of the other; patiently letting the man rearrange him to his liking offers ample means to do so without reservation.

Of what he's seen of the Bridgerton children, Benedict keeps to the standard set and maintained by his siblings. For the eldest brother, it's in his sharp angles. For the sisters, their soft features. For Benedict, it lives in that generous smile. Handsome, all of them.]

Some would say that's a dangerous amount of power to place in my hands.

[Which is just another way of saying that perhaps Kit's friends--and Benedict's, for that matter--were right to be worried about leaving them together unattended. He smiles slowly, clearly pleased at his company's choice to remain.]

It'll be our secret.

[The way he utters it, low and conspiratorial despite their being alone on their stretch of street, suits whims done in the dark.]

I won't tell if you won't.

[ Benedict understands the others' qualms. He is, after all, apparently precious, but socially he outranks almost all of them. Something happening to him spells ruin for the entire lot, and Kit is rather devil-may-care. Benedict likes that. Henry has always encouraged Benedict to embrace the freedoms that come with being a second son, anyway.

He fusses just a moment more with Kit's collar (when you have six younger siblings, you get used to fussing over winter clothes) and pats his shoulder. Up to snuff at last. ]

Shall we?

[Would he tell? Possibly, to those he already trusts with secrets. Possibly not, if Benedict truly feared having it widely known he spent too intimate a time with London's troublesome writer of questionable proclivities--a fair consideration. He has more of a fine and carefully delineated line to tread, after all. Further to fall should he cross it, too.

Kit could never stand for being anyone's shameful secret reserved only for cloistered get-togethers and quiet snowy streets, but in this instance he likes this air they're cultivating: of something shared, of something reserved for confederates in mischief.

For someone who's shared so little with his parents, and siblings, and peers, evenings spent chasing whims offer a feeling of connection in a city that so often seems to run on equitable acquaintances and unfeeling arrangements.

He stands and presents himself, allowing Benedict to take in his work. Once deemed worthy, he signals an end to the round of keep-away by settling in at the other's side.]

If you can handle the walk.

[But the tease doesn't quite end--and it rarely does, not when the Bridgerton's second son reacts so beautifully to being riled up--and it lurks beneath the words.]

You should think about taking your family in the day, if you haven't already. It's not every year we get a freeze. You have more than a few energetic younger siblings around who'd enjoy the novelty, as I recall.

[ Benedict snorts. He doesn't even want to imagine bringing any part of his family anywhere, much less a market set up on a frozen river. For one thing, his mother would never let him hear the end of it, but it would no doubt be a nightmare. Especially if the youngest of the Bridgerton brood were involved. ]

I've never heard of a more unappealing suggestion.

[ And really, while Benedict loves his family, why must Kit bring them up when they're having a perfectly lovely moment? This is the time when Benedict doesn't have to worry about being a Bridgerton. ]

I do hope you're not expecting me to play the hero if you should fall into the river, by the way.

So you say. I remain unconvinced you're as cynical a brother as you'd like me to believe.

[In the close-knit throng of guests, he'd been louder, matching the liveliness of audience and environment. In his current company he loses some of that pretense of drunken revelery, the smile he aims at the inside of his collar one of quiet amusement, the ribbing milder, softer.

His breath puffs against his neatly knotted scarf as he speaks. He can admit Benedict's habit toward proper turnout is his gain--it's warmer like this, actually dressed for a walk.]

Of course not. [His amusement grows, evident in his tone and the tilt of his head as he turns to regard the other.] We've established the merits of unfortunate accidents in good stories. I'd expect you to head to my rooms straightaway and take the writing on my desk before my landlord should find it. A gift worth more than my scarf. Something to remember me fondly by.

[And it might sell well, to boot.]

[ Who is Benedict kidding? He would absolutely rush to try and save Kit if there was a disaster, and it's very probable that Kit knows it, too. And he'd never be able to live down the guilt if he stood idly by.

He quirks an eyebrow up, and it seems to draw up the corner of his mouth along with it. ]

I can't imagine anything embarrassing you, so I assume the writing isn't very shameful. Are you worried about it being carelessly tossed aside?

[ That would be a terrible waste, to be true. And Benedict would hold it in high regard if he were to ever come in possession of it - though hopefully not through such tragic circumstances. ]

[Certainly he knows, and certainly that glimmer of a compassionate core peeking out and around what Kit's come to learn about the man is one of the great privileges to their striking up a friendship. The aristocracy breeds for a good number of traits, but not always kindness, or any tangible sense of nobility beyond the kind traced on a genealogical tree.

But Benedict, it seems, suffers from a curious case of actually caring. About his family, yes, but Kit suspects it extends just as much to a stranger in the street who might cross with some similar misfortune.

For his part, Benedict's suspicion is... partially right. Kit watches the snowflakes nestle on his curls and smiles in a way that suggests the other is correct at least as far as the first part.]

Shameful? Mm... that would depend on the reader. [He picks his next words with deliberate care.] Like your art models, it would take an open mind to appreciate it. Let's just say I doubt he would approve of the subject matter.

[Seeing as how Benedict's had an eyeful of what goes on behind Granville's closed doors, he can guess what varieties of shamefulness might provoke some pearl-clutching.]

Now I think I might have to steal them away from you just to read them anyway.

[ There's a playful smirk on his face as he glances to the side, and he tries not to let his mind wander to what, exactly, might be written on those pages. Are they intended to ever have an audience, or is it meant only for Kit's eyes - untimely demise notwithstanding?

Benedict won't ask. He's not as nosy as his siblings.

As they start to approach the Thames, Benedict puffs out a breath of air and watches it curl up into the night. Why had he agreed to this? The answer, he supposes, is obvious when he glances toward Kit again. Benedict's certain he might not have went along with it had someone else proposed it. He has no intentions of telling Kit that. The last thing he needs is the man feeling like he holds some sort of power over him, because he'll never hear the end of it. ]

And you're certain it's safe?

Would you. [That merits an actual laugh--a breathy, fleeting sound--not the least of which because he doubts the man has fully gleaned what manner of subject matter he's insinuating.] That curiosity could get you into trouble.

[But he thinks he might like the idea. The gall behind the boast, coming from the mouth of one of Mayfair's finest with scarcely a whisper of misconduct to his bill of comportment. It's true, he can't resist seeing color on a blank space, but he likes that Benedict is holding out his linens during these parties and excursions, risking a spot. Playfulness becomes him.

Comparing the state of their dirty linens, one might be tempted to think it's the eldest brother with all the hunger to slip the leash and misbehave--but he has a hunch, maybe even a hope, it's the second eldest, too.

The snow persists, dusting the ground in a layer of white, but their detour isn't far and they hear the riverside before they see it--music, singing, laughing, all the clamor that would've been present on pavement now relocated to the street of shops and entertainments hastily erected on the ice down below. In place of the usual water traffic, a carnival merrily bustles on, punctuated by warming fires, barking dogs, and zipping sleds. Whatever Benedict thinks about the types of people who'd venture out to learn the lay of the Thames' new frozen land, the rest of London disagrees.

Is he certain it's safe? He meets Benedict's eyes on their approach to the stairs, a gleam in his. He's certainly certain it doesn't much matter one way or the other.]

Safe is boring. [He tips his head toward the fun in motion.] I'll protect you. I said I'd see you home, and so I shall.

[ Safe is boring, isn't it? Benedict's spent his whole life being safe without ever really knowing it, and while he wouldn't say he's unhappy because of it, he certainly doesn't feel like it's ever done anything good for him, either. ]

Is this the moment where I remind you that you specifically mentioned the risk of drowning when you proposed this to me?

[ He doesn't try to stop the smile that tugs on his lips. He really doesn't doubt that Kit won't follow through, whether he sees Benedict home tonight, or in the morning, or even in a few days. The point is that it will happen, at some point. That's good enough for Benedict.

And it does look like fun. For a moment, Benedict wishes he had his sketchbook with him. Despite the cold biting at his ears, he thinks he could find a place to sit and draw the scene in front of him. It's all so lively, spontaneous and natural and not at all like the way London's society behaves. Naturally, that endears Benedict. There's the smell of something good on the air that he'd like to find, he decides, as he takes his first steps on to the frozen river. ]

[By his coyly smiling silence, he hasn't forgotten. And by the brightening gleam, he isn't about to apologize for playing the Pied Piper on the potential edge of disaster, and likely never will.

The risk of the fall is part of the rush. (It's the landing that hurts.)

It's a sight, dressed in the snow and the soft edges of night, but he spends his first few steps glancing over his shoulder at Benedict, looking at him looking at something new. It's more of a sight when reflected and refracted through the prism of Benedict's first encounters. It at once makes him feel like a cynical old soul and yet pleased that he, for his part, should be the first to introduce him to a side of the city the man might've only gotten to read about in the papers.]

Well? [He looks expectant. An admission his whims are worth a little extra walk and cold appendages wouldn't go awry.] What do you think?

I think it's brilliant.

[ Benedict laughs. He'd thought about acting a cynic, but there's no way he could do it convincingly. Besides, Kit's likely already clocked the joy sparking in his eyes, so why deny it?

His steps are cautious, worried he might lose traction and slip on the ice. He's less worried about potentially breaking the ice and falling through and far more concerned with looking a fool in front of Kit. ]

I'll have to come back to draw it, I think.

[He's well-rewarded for his fishing. The laughter and the positive response has him looking very pleased indeed.

Yes, sincerity is best served just like this--without pretenses, in the perplexed, awestruck curiosity Benedict does a poor job of keeping out of his expression. At least Benedict's, the way he serves it. Kit is entirely aware thinking so makes him a hypocrite in practice--too often hiding a great deal from his expressions, prone to neither the simple nor straightforward--but he doesn't care. Some people wear sincerity well, like exquisitely expensive scarves.]

What a shame it would've been had you gone home.

[Just as before, he hints at slyness but only just, the unaffected honesty beneath it as delicate and finespun as the flakes falling on them.

He couples it with a greater show of boldness that's no less sly or pleased, closing the distance to link his arm with Benedict's, his guiding steadiness giving away he isn't as tipsy as he'd been acting before.]

Why wait? I'm sure there's paper and charcoal somewhere, but first things first-- [That may change sooner than not; the first place he guides them toward is one of the makeshift "pubs" serving hot drinks and spirits. Together, best of all. Lightly:] Since you refused my scarf and threatened to steal my work, you're paying for this round.

Yes, of course, how could I possibly think of not making amends.

[ Benedict rolls his eyes good-naturedly. As if he wouldn't pay anyway, and as if Kit wouldn't come up with any other reason to say that Benedict ought to pay. What's the point of being as wealthy as he if he won't treat his friends?

Soon enough there's a cup of a hot mulled wine for each other them, and Benedict raises his own in a toast before taking a sip. ]

Well? Am I on my way to amends?

[He's more fortunate than most in his profession, for which financial feast and famine is the undeniable reality: Matthew de Clermont, on top of being filthy rich in his own right, doesn't suffer friends' unpaid tabs either on land or (frozen) water. But Kit counts himself doubly fortunate tonight to have the opportunity and pleasure of teasing Benedict a bit, and he nudges his shoulder against his for a moment, warmth threading in his echo of of course.

The steaming drink is a sumptuous curative for the cold and he smiles over the lip, savoring the scent despite the brief pang of bittersweetness he feels. Cinnamon and spices reminds him of the house on Water Lane.

But he's not sorry to be here instead.]

A toast to your redemption? [He touches his cup to Benedict's with a heavy clink.] You're forgiven... but only if you have fun without fussing and sketch a picture by the end of the night.

Edited 2021-05-17 10:16 (UTC)

I don't fuss that often.

[ Benedict snorts a bit before taking another sip from his cup. He really doesn't think of himself as the fussy one. When he's minding his younger siblings, yes, perhaps, but Kit really just seems to inspire it in him. It's one of the foundations of their friendship, really. ]

"By the end of the night" implies that I can sketch something before bed, once I'm safely home.

[ Though if he can get the materials, he supposes he could do something here. There's plenty to sketch. The bridge, the stands, the people, his present company. ]

On the contrary, I've noticed you worry too often about a great many other people and things. [An observation from a long-standing observer of people, offered on the back of a smile that curls one side of his mouth.] But you're coming out of your shell.

[Yes, it's still a bit of a teasing compliment, but it's also true in his eyes. Benedict seems to have lived most of his life in safety--the safe, mild-mannered, and appropriate corners of high society. As someone who's lived in the knavish, misbehaving corners, it's a treat to be a part of his venturing out, crossing the dividing line...

... but not to retreat back to Grosvenor Square with its scent of roses and lilacs.

At that, Kit stops, half-turned from the stand with drink half-raised, to deliver a narrow-eyed look of protest. You wouldn't dare try to quibble him out of victory on a technicality, would you, Benedict Bridgerton?]

Then we'll stay out until the sun rises. [Threats! Somehow Kit's easy, melodious way of speaking gets away as lipstick on the pig of a childish counter.]

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snow is nice

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omg i thought i replied to this a hundred years ago

u good, time has no meaning 🤛

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