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whenyourshipfinallysetssail · 2 years

Text

Just some random

STRANGER THOUGHTS 2

***SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4***

*****My smoldering hot-takes on the season’s hottest DILF. 🥵******

Jeezus, is it a million and one degrees in here, or am I trapped in a Russian Prison with Enzo?

See, that’s funny because you’d think a Russian prison would be cold, but then there’s a hot DILF in there.

Question number one: ok yeah enemies to lovers but has anyone ever tried “helpful prison guard to sexy cell mate?” Is that a trope? Can we make it one?

Now you’re probably asking yourself, does this crazy bitch ship Hopper and Enzo?

And the answer is yes, of course I do, but not in an “I’m gonna be mad if this show doesn’t make this cannon” sort of way. I know nobody is queer-baiting me here. If anyone is queer-baiting me it’s me. I’m very good at it, thank you very much. I can imagine incredibly straight men are in love when they’re on screen together in my eyeline for too long. That said, Ronance, Steddie, Byler, and Jargyle: make it canon or we riot. [How fucking dumb was it when they just threw a random chick at Argyle to show the audience he’s got a big case of the not-gays? Who cares. This show loves smashing straights against each other. Show me some bi 80’s teens or shut the fuck up. Also, watch out, everybody, cause the Mileven Mafia is about to come gunning for me: I don’t give one single fuck about Mike and El’s relationship and I never have. El’s busy, guys. She’s got a whole “facing down an inter-dimensional existential threat/I’ve got two dads but one is abusive and one’s in a gulag” thing going on. Fuckin’ don’t make her date a boy right now.]

Now, back to that gulag. Ah, Enzo. Dimitri “Enzo” Antonov. My imaginary boyfriend that someone else imagined for me, who is never going to date my other imaginary boyfriend from Season 1 [on TV, at least. In head canon it’s already happening and you can’t stop it] for two reasons: A) because obviously Jopper is a thing and the writers aren’t going to suddenly drop that just because we got season 2 of the gay pirates. (But wouldn’t that be WILD? What if they had shot two versions of the ending and they held back Vol. 2 so they could use the gay ending if Our Flag Means Death got renewed? Would the internet survive the aftermath?) And B) my two boyfriends can never date because canonically Season 1 Hopper died in Season 3 when the Duffer Brothers got amnesia and started telling David Harbor to just scream at everyone in every scene. RIP, baby. I still love you.

[Side-Note: I’ve got so many good hashtags for this ship you guys: #jimitri #hopptonov #enzopper #hoppzo. They write themselves. These men fit like puzzle pieces. Sexy, sexy little puzzle pieces. Mmmm. Cold, boys? Why don’t you two papa bears snuggle up for warmth? Yeah . . . Yeah . . . That’s real cozy . . . . . . . ANYWAY]

And of course, C) #jimzo #twopigsinablanket [lol, they’re both cops] is never gonna happen because they’re absolutely setting up my glorious Russian cinnamon roll for a tragic heroic death.

Look, snow-muffin, I love you. You’re the steely-eyed, growly-voiced, salt and peachy mustached, true friend to the death, morally grey Russian with a not-so-secret heart of gold of my fuckin’ dreams. I’d watch a whole spin off that’s just you teaching your son to ice fish in silence. I want you and Mikhail to defect to America and move in with Jim and El and wind up in a super bi thrupple with Chief Hopper and my self insert OC. (Her name is Azelia Moondragon, she has three different color eyes, she can change genitalia at will, she has an IQ of 3.6 billion, and and she’s more powerful than the Mind Flayer, Vecna,El, and eight demogorgons put together . . . Nah, just fuckin’ with you. Her name’s Kate Kauffman and she’s a 38 year old therapist from New Jersey with a secret drinking problem.)

Listen, my ice duke, my proud Siberian wolf, my shot of Svayak with a spoonful of caviar, we both know you could have an AMAZING arc in Season 5. We both know you could wind up snatched by the US government and forced to remain at the lab in Hawkins while the feds scramble to cover up the existence of the Demogorgon you saw, that you could have a moving side mission to bring your son to the US illegally while you help your bestest pal Hop and his annoying girlfriend [no, she’s fine, it’s fine, I like her, they’re good together, not all the hot men want to kiss each other, and that’s ok] parent their sulky teens and save the damn world.

We both know you could fall madly, passionately in love with the mysterious new psychologist that the lab hires to provide you and the other Demogorgon survivors “trauma and readjustment therapy,” but who has secretly been tasked with wiping your memory so you can never go back to Russia and tell the world what you know. We’re both well aware that after she succumbs to your arctic-foxlike charm, Dr. Kate Kauffman could never bare to wipe your memories, that she would instead confess that she is not a psychiatrist, she is in fact a powerful psychic, a subject of the experiment that preceded Hawkins Lab, that in a fit of tears as she laid bare her secrets she would lift up her sleeve to reveal the mark on her wrist, faded, but perfectly legible: “000,” and then as you took her in your arms and told me no harm has been done, all is forgiven, you’re here to protect me now, the two of us would begin to float into the . . .

*Ahem* At any rate . . .

My beautiful near-winter ermine, we both know you have so much potential as a character. But it’s time for both of us to face the harsh, cold facts, so much colder and more harsh than the winters of your beloved homeland.

Dimitri, my darling, here are the reasons we both know you’re definitely not making it out of Season 4 alive:

1) You’ve got a son to get back to. ROOKIE mistake, my love. I’m frankly astonished at you. And you revealed it RIGHT before the big monster battle? I mean, why don’t you just do a big monologue about how you two are going to open up an awesome rabbit farm when you get home? Do you WANT to die? Baby, I volunteer for a suicide hotline. Next time you feel compelled to confess touching details about yourself the night before you face a deadly threat right at the end of a season arc, call me. We can talk it through. You have so many reasons to live!

And of course, that is why you are going to die.

2) Where is Mikhail’s mom?

Now, this one’s interesting. Arguments COULD be made this could go either way.

The facts are these:

You’ve made zero mention of your wife in all this “reflecting upon our lives as we stare into the gaping maw of death” talk. MAYBE your wife divorced you, and that’s why you don’t like to talk about her. Seems unlikely, given Hop got you to punch him by implying she was disloyal. (Although we can’t rule out the possibility that that remark hit just a little too close to home. Perhaps your drive to be seen as a hero of the Motherland in the eyes of your son stems from a need to demonstrate you are the REAL daddy, a bigger, braver, cooler man than the stepfather his mother left you for? Interesting. We can discuss this again in your next session, Dimitri. That is, if we even do any talking next time . . . I mean, what? Huh? Oh! Right, the thingy. Yeah, sorry, I uh, got distracted by the . . . Nevermind.)

ANYWAY, the much more likely answer is, Mikhail’s mommy is deadzo. You are not only a DILF, you are a hot widower, and the show runners are saving this juicy detail for the inevitable “calm before the coming storm,” beat, the moment just before your heroic sacrifice during the final battle or the crazy escape sequence, when Hop says something cheesy like “You’ve got to rest up. Tomorrow you’re gonna need all your strength to hug that wife and kid of yours.”

And you’ll stare just left of camera with your gorgeous, steely gaze, and you’ll say in your low, haunted voice “I will need strength for only one hug. I am all the family my son has left.”

BOOM. You’re dead. The emotional stakes just got higher and all the Duffer Brothers have to do now is fry ‘em up in the bacon grease of tragic irony and serve them to the audience with a side of mashed dream-potatoes as we weep for you. Now your son is an orphan! And Season 5 has a ready-made cute Russian to bring in and fatten with all our collective emotional investment before the final slaughter. [Fun fact: the third ritual sacrifice of a beloved fictional Russian in a series opens an actual real portal to a hell-dimension in our world!!! The last one opened on January 15, 1968, when the finale of The Man From U.N.C.L.E was broadcast! It was only closed by “chance” when the counter spell was “unwittingly” triggered by casting Armie Hammer as Illya Kuryakin in the GUY RITCHIE directed remake. GUY RITCHIE. Did you know he made a King Arthur Movie?! The Lock, Stock, and Every Movie Jason Statham Has Ever Been in guy. Made a remake of a 60’s tv show and a King Arthur movie with WAY TOO MANY GOD DAMN WIZARDS. Anyway, like I said, luckily the portal was closed, but the things which came from its depths still roam our Earth, seeking raw flesh and fun 60’s fashion accessories. Remember, Ritchie has more dark power and arcane knowledge than he’s letting on, and always wear an ascot or a cute colorful beret when you go out or you will perish horribly!]

Then again, there is a hopeful reading of the no-wife-scenario. MAYBE, dead wife means no strings to hold down the season 5 Enzo romantic D plot. MAYBE they’re leaving you open for more hasty and gratuitous hetero coupling! Doctor Kauffman?! Paging Doctor Kauffman to the set of Stranger Things Season 5! They’re prepping for your close up! And after that, you’re making ST history, they’re setting up to shoot the show’s first sex scene with two adults!!!

[remember when we watched two teens awkwardly fuck while Barb was gruesomely murdered in Season 1? That scene has gotten even LESS comfortable somehow as the actors have aged. You look back and see how young they look compared to now and you’re like “yikes! I know the actors were actually twenty, but please! No more babies fucking, thanks!” Glad they stopped doing that shit. If I had to watch El and Mike fuck I’d hurl, for more reasons than one. LEAVE HER ALONE AND LET HER FIGURE OUT HER SHIT GOD DAMN IT I DON’T NEED TO SEE HER PUNCH MIKE’S V CARD I DON’T CARE THIS ISN’T EUPHORIA ITS A GOD DAMN SCI FI 80’s THROWBACK FUN TIME ABOUT PSYCHIC BABIES!]

So, yeah, no wife could mean free meat for the season five Hetero-pairing meat grinder! There’s hope!

. . . Hope? . . . Who am I kidding? I’m sorry, Dimitri, but this is no time, no world for hope! This is Stranger Things! Do you really think we’re gonna make it out of another season with two new cast members still alive like we did in Season 2? No. No, in the end they killed Billy for his hubris in daring to outlast Bob Newby. All good looking things must end, my dear. Let us kill hope now, before she hurts us again.

3) This Show Fucking Loves Killing Precious Russian Moonbeams [alternatively titled “Are The Duffer Brothers Attempting to Summon The Ravening One From Beyond the 9,000th Eye?!?! Stay Tuned For Season 4 to Find Out!”]

I don’t know if, like, everyone in Russia knows everyone in Russia, but, like, probably not? It looks like a pretty big country on the map. But, Enzy, baby, can I call you Enzy? No? Ok, well, Antonov, sweetheart, do you remember Alexi? He was this really cute, funny, enjoyable Russian sidekick they had last season. We had so much fun with him! At first, we thought he was this bad Russian scientist who was going to help screw over our beloved friends, but in the end, he actually teamed up with them! We all really came to love Alexi! He was kind of a fan favorite! People wrote long, rambling things with a lot of weird jokes in them about him on Tumblr. And then . . .

Sound familiar?

Call me a pessimist, but I just don’t think the Duffer Bros can pass up an opportunity to murder a beloved fictional Russian. Besides, it has been long since the gate was opened. The Ravening One cries out for more tender flesh from our own corporeal plane. Its inessence rumbles, its dark mindlessness bends upon our dimension with all the fell, unfeeling intent and obsession of otherworldly instincts. The Duffer Brothers are thinking of doing a 60’s throwback for their next show, and Guy Ritchie is slated to direct the first seance, I mean episode! . . . Plus they’re like so attentive to details, they’d never kill three Russians on accident! Or forget their birthdays.

Dimitri “Enzo” Nikolai Andronic Niklosky Antonov, we could play this little game of denial, dream this little dream of happiness, torture ourselves a little while longer with what can never be. But neither you nor I are fools. Let us say goodbye now. Let us bid farewell to visions of you doing a really cool group side mission for one or two episodes with Steeve and Eddie and Robin and Nancy and Dustin and Max and El. Let us not cling any longer to fantasies of an episode beat where the adults go out on the town and you and Hopper get in a big bar fight with some assholes who are teasing Joyce and Murray, and you do lots of cool punching to some banging 1987 hit like, I don’t know, RICK ASTLEY’S “NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP?!?!?!” [Did I do it? Does it count as Rick Rolling if it’s in text?]

Let us let go once and for all of our wistful longing for all the dopamine-explosion moments as you interact and bond and integrate with the entire Stranger Things ensemble, the giddy spectacle of novel combination after novel recombination of beloved characters, that heady right of passage of exploring increasingly bizarre pairings and group dynamics all new ST characters who survive their first season are treated to, until the dread Season 5 finale ultimately tears them all assunder as the eldritch gods of the Upsidedown inevitably triumph and wipe all away with one mighty, slimy tendril of inter-dimensional horror.

All I can say, Enzipie, Dimipants, Antobutt, is that it’s been one hell of a ride. You may be just a corrupt guard of some remote, snowy prison in the middle of nowhere, betrayed by his crooked accomplice, imprisoned alongside his former captive, escaped with the aide of unlikely allies, and doomed by the conventions of narrative drama to die, but you melted my heart.

At least we get to keep Eddie! . . . Right? Duffers? DUFFERS?!

TOUCH HIM AND YOU DIE, GOD DAMN IT!!!

*begins sobbing and singing unintelligible Russian dirges while pounding the table rhythmically with fist*

#enzopper #jimitri #hoppzo #hopptonov #jimzo #two pigs in a blanket #stranger things speculation #stranger things season 4 #st4 spoilers #stranger things #dimitri enzo antonov #enzo stranger things #ronance #steddie #jargyle #Byler #humour #stranger things meme #hopper x enzo

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smallzeppelincupcakes-blog · 8 years

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It started to snow as they drove up the mountain. Jimmy, in the passenger seat, the sheer drop down to the valley out his window, lit a cigarette. His hands shook slightly and he exhaled in a hard sigh, his head tipped back against the headrest.

“Christ, I hate Switzerland. I hate mountains. What's wrong with a nice, sensible, flat stretch of land? Who the fuck would live in the fucking mountains? Maybe some rolling hills, or low mountains, you know, not the fucking Alps. Why can't they at least put a fucking wall or something so it's not a clean pitch to death?”

“With the snow picking up, you can't even see how far down it is,” Bonzo pointed out.

“Well don't be gazing at the scenery! Keep your eyes on road!”

“I can do both.”

“You can't!”

“You don't even know how to drive,” Bonzo said reasonably. “Quit whining. It's fine. People manage.”

Jimmy shut his eyes. “I'm not whining.”

“You are. It wouldn't be you if you weren't.”

He cracked an eye open and his lips twitched in a nervous smile. “Well, see, then I have to whine.”

“I ought to put you out right here,” he said, but there was no sting to his words. He was glad Jimmy was here. He didn't think he'd ever been so glad to see Jimmy as he had been at the airport.

It was a bit tricky to get to, but the chateau was beautiful. It was simple and rustic, but unobtrusively luxurious and equipped with every convenience he could want. There was a breathtaking view from each window: the rather awful majesty of the mountains, jagged gray bones poking unabashedly through their glittering mantles of diamond snow. The sweep of pines on their lower flanks, frosted with white where the wind didn't blow them clean. And below, not so far it looked, the lights of Montreaux and Lake Geneva. There were times at night when it looked like a toy village, like something in a shop window around Christmas time, with a model train running through it, mysteriously, efficiently. He remembered crowding around those windows with the other kids, their breath fogging the glass, transfixed and awed by the miniature perfection of the silent, complete village, the tunnel through the hill, the dusting of forest and the animals peering between the trees. Sometimes, at night, he felt that same almost holy awe as the lights of the city gradually winked out, save for the casino, and the still waters of the lake reflected another starry sky, rough wild mountains. Sometimes Bonzo would go out at night, despite the bitter, hateful cold, just to fill his lungs full of that strange pure air, like breathing starlight, just to see that indigo world where the snow winked faintly back at the stars. If he had to be in exile, then he might as well be here.

Although next time, he conceded to himself, he might find somewhere tropical.

He pulled into the garage and helped Jimmy unload his bags and carry them to the door. Jimmy stood beside him, shivering in his heavy coat, as Bonzo searched for the key.

“Oh God,” Jimmy moaned as they stepped inside. “That's a real furnace.”

“I told you.”

“It works.”

“Yeah. I told you.” He set Jimmy's bag down and unbuttoned his coat. “On the phone.”

“I know, but, you know, I didn't quite believe it.” He was smiling blissfully as he unwound his scarf. “You can never really trust these places. 'All modern fixtures!' And then you get there and you're pumping cold water into a bucket outside.”

Bonzo laughed, because, god, wasn't that the truth. He hadn't been entirely sure what to expect when he'd first arrived here.“You're in luck, we have a proper kitchen and a tub with hot water.”

“Oh that's heaven.” Jimmy picked his bags up. “Where do I put these?”

“This way.” Bonzo gestured for him to follow as he headed down the hall. “There's a room here, nice big armoire for you to hang your clothes in.”

“Wow,” Jimmy said, when Bonzo flipped the lights on and showed him in. “This is... yeah, I think I can manage in here.”

There were woven carpets on the floor, bright colors and intricate patterns faded by years and use, a deep sleigh bed piled thickly with quilts, and a cavernous, richly carved armoire. There was a window with a pretty view, hidden now by deep curtains pulled against the cold night. A mirror on the far wall reflected the whole cozy scene back at them, and let Bonzo see the pleasure in Jimmy's face, and his genuine, almost shy, smile before he turned.

“This is lovely.”

“My room's next door.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Can I see?”

“Maybe later. There's a bathroom down the hall if you need it—”

“With a big tub with hot water?” he asked hopefully. There was a glint in his eyes, and Bonzo guessed he was making plans.

“Yeah, if you fill it up. Do you want to change or anything? I'm going to start dinner.”

“I can help,” Jimmy offered.

“No,” Bonzo said firmly. “Bless you for trying to be a good guest, but I don't want you ruining good food.”

“I'm not that bad,” he protested.

“Jim. I'll let you open the wine, how about that?”

He sighed. “Fine. I'll change, you start cooking. Don't start drinking without me.”

“I don't make promises I can't keep,” he said, then, hesitating for a bare second, pulled Jimmy into a hug. He felt incredibly fragile in Bonzo's arms, all edges and angles, skinnier than ever. It was like holding a bird, hollow bones enclosing nothing. He kissed the corner of Jimmy's mouth, his cheek; he could feel the little shiver run through Jimmy's body, but Bonzo didn't want to take this any further yet. He only needed, now, to feel that he wasn't alone. And he knew very well how much Jimmy appreciated a delayed satisfaction. “I'm glad you came,” he said into the glossy spill of Jimmy's hair.

“Of course,” Jimmy said, and then added, as if he realized that didn't sound right. “You're welcome, I mean, I'm glad to be here. I'm glad I can keep you company. I didn't like you out here all on your own.”

“How bad off am I,” he joked, letting go of Jimmy, “that Jimmy Page is looking out for me?”

“Probably a lost cause,” Jimmy agreed.

“Alright, you curl your hair and put your lipstick and pearls on, I'll get dinner started.”

Jimmy took the opportunity to peek in Bonzo's room as he headed for the bathroom. There was a vast bed, neatly made, a curtained window, faded Persian rugs. The rather impersonal neatness, surely the work of the housekeeper, was interrupted only a clutter of objects on top of the bureau: a stack of envelopes, an ashtray, and dozens of photos of Bonzo's family. Jimmy felt a cold flush of guilt, as if it was somehow his fault that Bonzo was here, and he left the room quickly. He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, examined himself critically in the mirror, and went back to his room for his shaving kit. When he was done, he fussed with his hair for a few minutes—there was nothing like flying for your looks—then, reasonably satisfied, went back to his room and changed. By the time he emerged and joined Bonzo in the kitchen, the meal was almost ready.

The kitchen was small but well-appointed and was rich with the scents of cooking. It was a holiday meal Bonzo was making, both in the type and size of the menu, and those familiar smells of roasting and baking evoked a sweet and poignant nostalgia, not so much for the actual Christmases of childhood but the fantasy of them; the magical excitement of the days leading up to it and that dark and somehow, although his family had never been particularly observant, sacred awe of Christmas Eve. Bonzo looked absorbed and content in his work, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, as he checked the pans and pots simmering on the stove. There was a glass on the counter near him, a scant swallow of liquid left in it.

“Are you expecting more company?” Jimmy asked as ventured into the kitchen.

“No, it's just us.”

“Good, I don't feel up to socializing after that flight.” He stood beside Bonzo and put his hand on his back. “But who's going to eat all this?”

“We are,” Bonzo explained patiently.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “That's an awful lot for two people.”

“It won't kill you to have a nice holiday meal. Then again, maybe it will.”

“Haha. I see you didn't wait for me to have a drink.”

“Nope. I'd pour you one but the roast is at a delicate point. Help yourself.” He nodded toward a shelf on the far wall. “Don't feel like you have to catch up.”

There was a row of bottles, gin, vodka, scotch, and below them a neat line of glasses. Jimmy poured himself a scotch and leaned back against the counter as he watched Bonzo open the oven to check the roast. “How much longer?”

“Not much. I had some of this started before I picked you up.” He closed the oven and looked over his shoulder at Jimmy. “There's wine for dinner if you want any. Feeling better now that you've been on solid ground for a bit?”

“A little. Thanks for picking me up.”

“It's a long ride in a cab and, you know, it's always nice to see a friendly face when you get off a plane.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, and Bonzo did too, that kind, warm, shyly genuine smile it had taken him ages to earn. “It really is.”

Bonzo pulled the tea towel off his shoulder and wiped his hands. “Mind helping me set the table?”

He followed Bonzo into the dining room. The room gleamed like a jewel box, all dark wood polished slick as glass, a chandelier glittering above the table, dark velvet curtains pulled back to show the lights of Montreaux below and the bluish-white flanks of the mountains rising above. They set the table—“Let's use the good stuff,” Bonzo said as he opened a cabinet full of platinum edged plates and crystal glasses and heavy old silver—two places side by side at that great table. Back in the kitchen, he helped Bonzo get the roast on a platter and sauces in tureens. Bonzo refused to let him slice the roast, but, in what appeared to be a magnanimous gesture, allowed him to cut the bread. When they carried it all into the dining room and arranged it on the table and sideboard, it looked like a feast fit some lavishly dispossessed Hapsburg or a Victorian Christmas illustration.

“It's beautiful,” Jimmy said, gazing out at the table.

“Never mind what it looks like.” Bonzo began serving himself. “Eat it.”

It tasted better than it looked. Jimmy dutifully filled his plate, and, by the time they'd gone through the wine and Bonzo got up to fetch the vodka, he'd finished most of it.

“That was wonderful,” Jimmy said when he returned with the bottle. “That was the best meal I've had in ages.”

“For what that's worth.” Bonzo's mouth quirked in a grin and he filled Jimmy's glass. “Thanks. Usually the housekeeper, Anna, fixes something for me when she comes by and I just heat it when I get hungry. She's an dear, we get on like old friends. She could drink me under the table easy.”

Jimmy laughed. “I hope I meet her!”

“But it's nice to have someone to cook a proper meal for.” Bonzo touched his hand and Jimmy uncurled his fingers, let Bonzo squeeze his hand. “I'm glad you liked it.”

They decamped to the study. There was a TV that picked up a few stations, an impressive stereo system, the overflow of books from the library, a snug hearth, and a Christmas tree simply but prettily decorated.

“Isn't this festive.” Jimmy ran his fingers over the needles.

“Yeah.” Bonzo knelt to pile logs in the hearth. “I didn't want one, but Anna had her son bring it up the other day and she was already putting the ornaments on when I saw it. Couldn't very well have a tantrum and tell her to take it down, could I? I guess I'm glad it's there, in a way, and then again....” He struck the match and in the leap of yellow light his handsome face looked stern and sad. “Then again.”

Jimmy sat on the sofa, cradling his glass between his hands. He was terrible at comforting people and he floundered for a moment, struggling to find the right thing to say. “You'll see them soon, won't you? But it must be hard to get in the spirit.”

“I'll manage.” He set the screen back in place and joined Jimmy on the sofa. “ 'Sides, I'm not sitting here moping by myself anymore, am I?” He made a joke of it with his tone, but the look in his eyes was sincere.

“No, but can you spare me for a moment? Your stereo reminded me of something.”

Bonzo looked puzzled, but he said, “Alright. I don't dare imagine what it could remind you of, but I'm prepared for the worst.”

“God, what kind of degenerate do you think I am.”

“Jimmy,” Bonzo said seriously. “I know what kind of degenerate you are.”

He leaned forward and kissed Bonzo on the mouth quickly. “Takes one to know what, isn't that what they say.”

He caught Jimmy, his hand around the back of his neck, and held him a moment to kiss him again. His lips pushed Jimmy's apart and Jimmy sighed softly, the warmth of Bonzo's hand and mouth spreading through his body. “Go on then. Let's see what it is.”

Jimmy went back through the chateau, the dim rooms and darkened halls, to his room. He opened the bag he'd stowed in the bottom of the armoire, not the one he'd put under the bed, and took a flat, carefully wrapped package out. He carried it back to the study and held it out for Bonzo.

“Take it, it won't bite.”

Bonzo looked skeptical, but he took the package and unwrapped it and his face broke into a broad grin. “Jimmy! I was thinking only the other day that I wish I'd brought this album with me. I actually looked around the shops in town, couldn't find it of course, and was feeling a little sorry for myself, thinking it would be took much trouble to have it sent from England. And here you are, Mr. Airmail himself.”

He eased the album out of the faded sleeve and carried it over to the stereo. Jimmy topped up his drink and sat back on the sofa, head tipped against the, high, plush curve of the back. He closed his eyes when Bonzo switched the turntable on and a moment later Sandy Nelson's drums filled the little room.

“Listen to that!” Bonzo stamped in time with the beat and Jimmy opened his eyes, smiling. The little tchotchkes on the mantlepiece Anna no doubt dusted so carefully trembled, but Bonzo was glowing. It was funny that once he wouldn't have thought that making Bonzo happy could make him feel so good. He had respected Bonzo as a drummer from the start and they had got along well enough, they could talk and drink together and party together, but real friendship had taken time to grow between them. Jimmy sometimes couldn't decide which of them had been more reticent about it, he perhaps unconsciously and Bonzo less so. Later, Bonzo had told Jimmy he thought he was a bit frosty and pompous—“A brilliant bastard, but a right fucking stuck up one.” Jimmy supposed he had been, probably still was. Yet they had become friends, truly, beyond the professional courtesies of being bandmates, and over the past year they had become even closer. He sometimes felt they understood each other in a way the others didn't, that there were things neither of them needed to explain or defend to each other. It was a relief, a release, which Jimmy found himself coming to depend on. He wondered if Bonzo did too; they never spoke about things like that.

“Good stuff, isn't it.” Bonzo dropped down on the couch, finished his drink in a gulp, and poured another. “Gives me ideas for my solo album.”

“Yeah? Looking for a producer?”

“Yeah, imagine me with a solo album.” Bonzo shook his head wryly. “The last thing anyone needs.”

Jimmy sat up and turned to face him. “Why not? You're the best drummer I know.”

“You have to say that,” Bonzo said. “You think everything you like is the best.”

Jimmy smirked in that way he was sure was both exasperating and charming. “That's because it is and everyone agrees with me.”

Bonzo snorted good-naturedly. “That's what they're paid to tell you, Jimmy.”

“That's not what I pay you for. I pay you to be brilliant.”

Bonzo looked a little embarrassed but he came back quick enough. “You'd better appreciate it, or when my solo album takes off in the charts you'll be in trouble.”

At some point Bonzo got a bottle of wine and three albums later they both felt pleasantly buzzed. Jimmy was leaning against Bonzo, who slid an arm around his shoulders. The soft, solid shape of his body steadied something inside Jimmy, something that these days felt more and more unstable. It was funny, wasn't it, that they should turn to each other for this kind of comfort. There was no one else who could give to him quite what Bonzo did. He pressed himself into Bonzo, needing, suddenly, the way Bonzo reached over and held him still with one hand at his waist. He kissed Bonzo's neck, then tilted his face up to nuzzle his beard, soft and untrimmed these weeks. He stopped when he felt the pressure of Bonzo's fingers on his throat, not pushing, just enough pressure to give the command he had come all this way to obey. He knew Bonzo was looking at him, waiting, but Jimmy didn't meet his eyes.

“What a pair we make,” he said, and Jimmy knew, he knew. He drew in a deep, unsteady breath, and Bonzo touched his face as if he'd never seen it before. “What a pair....” His hand slid into Jimmy's hair, fingers twisting just to the edge of pain.

“Please.” His voice came out dry and catching and he tried again. “Please, Bonzo, will you please... I want... I brought my things.”

He chuckled: he knew just what Jimmy meant. “You're a treat to travel with.”

But Jimmy needed to know, he needed Bonzo to say yes or no. “Will you do it?” he demanded. He opened his eyes and blinked at the tender expression on Bonzo's face. “Will you please?” he asked again, softly.

“If you'll tell me that's what you want me to do,” he said solemnly.

“I brought the cord,” Jimmy whispered. “And the whip and—I want you to do it.”

It wasn't what most people would have thought of as comfort, Bonzo knew that. But it was for Jimmy, and it was, in turn, comforting to do that for him. It was comforting to take care of him afterwards, when Jimmy was little more than a raw nerve. It was comforting to see him relaxed and content when they next woke, his body languid and a little bruised. It was comforting to give and receive, to find a friend here in exile and know that, for these days together, they would not let each other down. Jimmy's face was pale, trusting, the line of his jaw sharper than it had once been against the heel of Bonzo's hand.

“I'll do it,” he said. “Of course I'll do it.”

When they kissed, he felt Jimmy murmur thank you, silently, against his lips.

#jimzo #merry late christmas guys!

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