Anzu gives John a sidelong look — he's just met John, so he doesn't yet know the other man's tells, nor when and where John's likely to tell white lies about how well he's doing, what he wants, what he thinks he needs. But he's old enough and has lived through enough interesting times that he can't help but suspect John might be a little too eager to do what's most convenient for other people, and what's the least threatening, the least likely to be misinterpreted on some grey flimsy foolscap or other, the least likely to lead to another one-sixtieth of a death sentence written with a blotchy biro by someone who can't be bothered to ask how to spell his name.
Or he could be projecting. He's no longer haunted daily by the fear of the asylum and of being given estates out in the country and sent away for his health (i.e. asylum for the boyars and courtiers, more comfortable as far as creature comforts go and just as miserable socially), and it's been a decade since he's had to watch his step daily, since he's had to be the ambassador for all like him, among people who kept him around as a sort of talisman to shake in the face of anyone who dared criticise the Tzarist regime.
He's had time to forget, but he hasn't forgotten.
But right now is a bad time to dither and second-guess, he decides, and so he leads John to the edge of the square, to a little cul-de-sac with an wrought iron bench (the back towards a blank stone wall) and an inexplicable disused bird bath. His husband follows behind them — and from his expression, Anzu deduces that he's not alone in his concern. Which isn't, really, a surprise.
He lets go of John's hand and sits down on the bench, trying to disguise his relief at being off his feet.
"At least here, one can hear oneself think, nu, darling?" he says to John, raising an eyebrow. "This place, it did not look quite so lively when I arrived."
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Anzu gives John a sidelong look — he's just met John, so he doesn't yet know the other man's tells, nor when and where John's likely to tell white lies about how well he's doing, what he wants, what he thinks he needs. But he's old enough and has lived through enough interesting times that he can't help but suspect John might be a little too eager to do what's most convenient for other people, and what's the least threatening, the least likely to be misinterpreted on some grey flimsy foolscap or other, the least likely to lead to another one-sixtieth of a death sentence written with a blotchy biro by someone who can't be bothered to ask how to spell his name.
Or he could be projecting. He's no longer haunted daily by the fear of the asylum and of being given estates out in the country and sent away for his health (i.e. asylum for the boyars and courtiers, more comfortable as far as creature comforts go and just as miserable socially), and it's been a decade since he's had to watch his step daily, since he's had to be the ambassador for all like him, among people who kept him around as a sort of talisman to shake in the face of anyone who dared criticise the Tzarist regime.
He's had time to forget, but he hasn't forgotten.
But right now is a bad time to dither and second-guess, he decides, and so he leads John to the edge of the square, to a little cul-de-sac with an wrought iron bench (the back towards a blank stone wall) and an inexplicable disused bird bath. His husband follows behind them — and from his expression, Anzu deduces that he's not alone in his concern. Which isn't, really, a surprise.
He lets go of John's hand and sits down on the bench, trying to disguise his relief at being off his feet.
"At least here, one can hear oneself think, nu, darling?" he says to John, raising an eyebrow. "This place, it did not look quite so lively when I arrived."