Harold has always been a reserved person, always been prone to holding back his stronger feelings and sharing them quietly, tentatively, like he's afraid to expose them to the air. But the past few years since Nathan's death, it's been more than that: he's smothered and stifled himself as much as he can, especially his personal characteristics, especially the small things that bring him joy. It had taken so long after that experience with Dillinger to feel open to even letting John know that he likes a certain diner, and now he's watching old cinema with him and arranging bird watching trips. It stings like a stiff, disused muscle, making his happiness fragile.
His mind is bursting with facts, the sort of mood that leads to him giving John a much longer explanation than he'd strictly asked for. He keeps teetering back and forth between indulging it and holding it in.
He's still not the sort to initiate casual physical contact, and Harold has yet to think of it as something John might want on a regular basis because he's too busy thinking about everything else. He shrugs on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder and approaches the door, automatically waiting to let John out first in a move that has become second nature.
"Yes, we'll be able to take it from our lodgings. The weather forecast looks relatively clear, but tomorrow we may have some rain. That could be a stroke of good fortune, actually, as it's migratory season and sometimes that will ground whole flocks as they wait for the rain to pass..."
He trails off, finishes a touch self-consciously, "I've brought a sketchbook this time, so you needn't donate more of your arms to my whims."
John wants to say that he doesn't mind, that he likes having Harold's drawings on him. A physical reminder that they're... together. That he's Harold's. But he doesn't know how to express that. It's not something he has the words to say. But he wants to, so he struggles through it for once, pushes himself. It's uncomfortable and words come out clumsy and a bit unsure.
"I would, if you wanted."
He's a bit embarrassed now that it's out there. It's not the kind of thing he usually says. It's personal on a level he's unused to showing, but he wants to give that to Harold, wants to participate in this relationship they're growing into.
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His mind is bursting with facts, the sort of mood that leads to him giving John a much longer explanation than he'd strictly asked for. He keeps teetering back and forth between indulging it and holding it in.
He's still not the sort to initiate casual physical contact, and Harold has yet to think of it as something John might want on a regular basis because he's too busy thinking about everything else. He shrugs on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder and approaches the door, automatically waiting to let John out first in a move that has become second nature.
"Yes, we'll be able to take it from our lodgings. The weather forecast looks relatively clear, but tomorrow we may have some rain. That could be a stroke of good fortune, actually, as it's migratory season and sometimes that will ground whole flocks as they wait for the rain to pass..."
He trails off, finishes a touch self-consciously, "I've brought a sketchbook this time, so you needn't donate more of your arms to my whims."
no subject
"I would, if you wanted."
He's a bit embarrassed now that it's out there. It's not the kind of thing he usually says. It's personal on a level he's unused to showing, but he wants to give that to Harold, wants to participate in this relationship they're growing into.