milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As he suspected he would, Jim caught Sherlock's - heh, Rory's - stupid bloody cold. He went to bed angry, frustrated, and sick to the back teeth of this entire bloody bar.

He wakes up with a Welsh accent, a body that feels weirdly exhausted, and a whooooole lot of surprise at finding himself in a bedroom that is not wallpapered in Laura Ashley, cluttered with years' worth of books and theatre junk. Gethin has never set foot in a room so opulent, and so incomprehensible to him. He spends a good hour looking at the clothes, the books, the...frankly pornographic, yet extremely beautiful...photography on the wall of the library (the centrepiece of which involves his own face, and the blurred figure of a much taller man in the background. He doesn't look at it for long.) Everything is very, very weird.

In short, Gethin Roberts does not have a bloody clue what's going on. But at least there are clothes he recognises - comfortably 80s in style - and if the cold he's got means he can't go searching Jonathan out, at least there appears to be a...bar, downstairs?

What. The Actual. Hell.

[OOC: getting in under the wire! Open until the end of March. :)]

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Gethin was not expecting that. Not the comment on equality and acceptance - it's what they're all aiming for, even if it seems like a distant dream - but the thing about surviving. He blinks, taken aback; his face crumbles just a touch, and he looks down.

'Yeah.'

Yeah.

Emcee impulsively reaches out to touch Gethin's jaw, just a quick sweep of fingertips warmed by the teacup.

"Life is beautiful, darling," he tells him, smiling faintly. "And it is worth it."

He smiles too, just a bit. And shakes his head a touch, eyes closed to hide the water in them.

'Sorry. Yeah, you're right. It is.'

It's not fair, though. Not even a bit. He swallows hard.

'My boyfriend - - he's got HIV. Surviving's not really a-'

Nope, can't say it. He looks down again, pulls in a long breath and gets himself together at the same time. He's not really one for falling apart, especially in public. That was just an unexpected comment.

Emcee nearly crumbles as well. Because it isn't fair.

"Oh, no. Oh, Gethin, I'm so sorry."

He lays a hand on Gethin's arm, his thumb stroking his sleeve. There will always be a part of him that wants to take other people's pain away, no matter what he himself is going through.

"Tell me, darling, what is he like? Your boyfriend. Hm?" he asks gently.

He's...well, he's Jonathan. He's never thought of having to explain him before. He just is; loud, and exuberant, and wonderful. Gethin smiles again, a bit watery, and lets out a small laugh.

'He's an actor. Jonathan, his name is. He gets up in drag during Pride, and makes a racket in the street. Last year he got up on a table in front of a load of old Welsh miners, and danced a disco song in front of them.'

He's just who he is, all the time, relentlessly. And then at home, he's caring, and affectionate, and clever. They're not a perfect couple, but Gethin burns with love for him all the same, and it probably shows.

'He's creative in the kitchen. Loves people, loves music, an' he's got a...unique fashion sense. He smokes so much pot he's started saying its what keeps him alive.'

At least the smile is less watery now.

'He was the second person in the country to get diagnosed. Everyone else is dropping like flies, but he keeps going. No one knows how.'

Emcee smiles, and chuckles, and nods in enthusiastic agreement with Jonathan's life choices. Yes to all of it.

"Oh, I adore the man already," he says with a warm laugh.

And then he sighs, giving Gethin an earnest look.

"Don't you see, darling? He hasn't given up. He is fighting for every day that dawns. He is surviving."

'...yeah. Yeah, I know. You're right.'

Gethin's not maudlin about it most of the time. But he can't help worrying about him and, just occasionally, breaking down over what life's going to be like once he's gone.

'He'd kill me for going on about it, sorry.'

His face brightens up, and he chuckles again.

'I reckon you and he'd get on well.'

"I can't imagine that it's easy for you, either, you have every right to worry," he assures him sympathetically, sensing how much Gethin loves Jonathan. "But you carry on. For him."

He brightens as well, and utters a short, musical giggle.

"You know what, I think we would throw the most marvelous dance parties."

'Can't just give up,' he says with a nod, ignoring the traitorous voice that tells him this disease doesn't care whether people give in, or not; whether they're loved, or have friends, or not. It just kills everyone.

(He has no way of knowing that Jonathan, in defiance of all odds, will still be alive more than thirty years later. The man's remarkable in so many ways.)

'You would, too. There's not much he likes better than making the flat shake off its foundations. He'd let you do his make-up too, the more outrageous the better.'

"Ah, kindred spirits, indeed," he beams.

"If he and I were ever to meet, you poor thing would probably have to endure hours of backstage stories and non-stop ABBA. --Yes, I know, ABBA. I may be from 1934, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the music from 1974," he adds with a chuckle.

'I can cope with backstage stories and ABBA. Though he'd probably take it on himself to update your music tastes a bit. He reckons he was a pure disco queen through the 70s.'

Gethin believes him. Everyone who knows Jonathan believes him.

Emcee laughs. "I would relish it. And speaking of queens-- Queen! I love Queen. Freddie Mercury is thoroughly and utterly my patron saint. But what about you, my dear? What do you like to do for fun?"

'Oh, yeah. You can't go wrong with Freddie.'

Patron saint of every openly gay man everywhere, for real. Plus, an amazing singer. He picks up his drink, and half-shrugs.

'I spend most of my time hanging around with the activist groups that meet at the shop. And it's not hard to have a good time in London. Like I said, Soho's got a good nightlife.'

Plus, he reads. Obviously.

"Mm, but you don't dress in drag and dance on top of tables," he teases.

He can see why they're a good fit, actually.

'Nah. Not really my thing. I don't mind a bit of make-up, but dresses are-'

Well. For people like Jonathan and - he imagines on the right day - Emcee. Still, he looks amused by the teasing.

'Is drag a thing in the 30s? I mean, I know it always has been to a degree, but in Berlin?'

In front of Nazis, is what he means.

Emcee chuckles brightly. "So you're saying that you have danced on top of tables," he pokes at him, still good-naturedly.

"And oh, yes, we had some lovely drag performers," he then says, before his expression falters a bit. He purses his lips, and tilts his head with a short sigh.

"The operative word being 'had.' You see, things were a lot more-- tolerant during the 1920s. At least, it seemed that way. There were venues in certain neighborhoods were such acts were showcased without repercussions. Queens, kings, everyone in between, we had them all, and it was wonderful. Then at the start of the '30s, when the new government took over, dormant laws were suddenly enforced, and more restrictive ones were set in place, and now--" He shakes his head. "You know as well as I that it is never easy living as an other. In Berlin, we lived undercover, underground, flourishing in the shadows as ourselves. In the seedy nightclubs, the jazz bars, the dance halls. But when the government started to take those away from us in a directive to-- purify culture? In a cruel and ridiculous imposition of morality? That is how they're going to get us. When they expose us."

A slight pause.

"Which is why I'm leaving while I still can."

His expression says that yeah, okay, he may have danced on a table a time or two. The humour dies away though, to be replaced by a sort of weary resignation. Yeah, it's an old story to him, but only made worse by talking to someone who's living through it. And it feels like nothing changes, even though he's well aware that they do. Just...slowly. Really slowly.

'Where are you going?'

"Why, America, of course," he says with an air of theatricality, "land of opportunity."

He then smirks and rolls his eyes a little, shaking his head.

"I am as enamored of the idea of America as the next person, but I am aware that things won't be easy there. Not for a poor German immigrant. Still, I have always wanted to see New York City. So. I will find a way."

Gethin thinks this over for a moment, then half-shrugs.

'Prob'ly the best place to go, really. You'll have fun. If I remember right, the 40s and 50s weren't so bad in America. Lots of good plays and books. And the 60s - you'll enjoy them.'

Emcee considers this, too, but with a grain of pragmatism. And he smiles with one corner of his mouth.

"I'm looking forward to it. But first, I must look forward to actually getting there. And as I said, I will find a way."

He clears a sudden tickle in his throat, and finishes off his tea.

"Well, darling, I think I ought to head upstairs. I feel a little chill coming on, but I'm sure it's nothing a nap in a nest of blankets won't take care of."

'Yeah, of course.'

There does seem to be something going around, and he knows Emcee was recently shot. He should definitely rest up.

'It was really nice meeting you. Good luck, okay? Stay safe, if you can.'

"Likewise," he replies with a nod and a small but warm smile, "and thank you, I will. I wish you the same as well."

He takes his thermos of tea and begins to head off when he adds, "Perhaps we'll meet again some time."

And with that he turns toward the stairs. A part of him still nags at him, making him wonder if for all this time, he'd been talking to Jim. But he doesn't dwell on it. A long nap in a warm bed is in order.

[ooc: This was fabulous. Thank you!]

[OOC: it was perfection, thanks so much for tagging! <3]

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