Weary feet crossed the threshold, shoes flecked with sand. They stood in the passageway for a minute, ears above them listening to the silence, nose inhaling the familiar scent. Eyes closed a moment, the long journey had left him feeling like he was in constant motion, and now so still, his limbs felt heavy.

The loved, familiar coat came out of the bag. The dimensions of the worn satchel defying physical proportions with magic. The coat found a home amongst the others and he stroked absentmindedly at the creases from where it had been stowed. It had been too recognisable to wear the past few days. Nobody but the jarveys had given him a second look dressed in jeans and a jumper, his dark curls raked back into a ponytail. He shook them free with some relief in the privacy of Balfour's home.

He navigated the rooms without hesitation, eyes keenly taking in what had moved since his last visit. Hands softly greeted the cats as they stirred, and he crouched to ruffle Whiskey's fur, and slide his arm around the hound, somewhat fonder of the dog that the Fates. The jellyfish drifted about the ceilings nonplussed. The familiarity was reassuring.

Content to be home of sorts, he absentmindedly tidied crockery beside the sink, fed the cats and Whiskey early so they wouldn't bother him later. He'd watched Balfour do it often enough, or so he felt.

Before long he cast off his clothes in the bedroom, and slipped between the sheets, despite it being mid-afternoon. They smelled of Balfour, and Whiskey who occupied the side of the bed until Johann temporarily evicted him on a night. Stretching his lean figure on the soft sheets, he watched the jellyfish drift across the ceiling for a while, blinking slowly. Sleep could not be elusive forever. The last of the bottle of potion captured it soon enough, and his blue eyes closed at last.



Waking from potion was never much fun. If felt like swimming up to the surface from a great depth, limbs heavy, vision blurred. It took a while to remember where he was, and there was always the panic that he might not come around for more than a day.

Johann inhaled deeply, stirring and stretching. He was warm, in a state of undress in his lover's bed, and as he stirred, he sensed a presence nearby, and rubbed at his blue eyes before reaching a hand out.
"How long have you been there?" He asked sleepily, "And what day is it?"

The work day had stretched into night, from investigating rumours of a mishandled Nundu cub to the slow and drawn out hours of department meetings on level four. By the time Balfour left the Ministry, he had been through four changes of work attire and settled on the clean loungewear that Mrs Lanningham kept in his office wardrobe - bless her efficient soul.

It was a luxury in itself to return home without the stench of beast secretions accompanying the relief of the weekend. As the front door gave way to the main parlour, however, he found that relief was being vexingly elusive tonight. The Fates were all at the windows and staring out across Knightsbridge in sentinel positions. They didn't acknowledge him coming home, which usually meant that someone else had beat him to it.

"Knox?" Balfour called as he glanced around the living room, wondering if his sister had dropped by as she so often threatened to do - it was only when he hung up his scarf that he recognised the intruding item. Well. Not so much an intrusion as a missing entity come home. Johann's coat was instantly recognisable.

Whiskey lifted his head as Balfour ambled into his bedroom, and came up to greet him happily. He paused only to give the German Shepherd a friendly scratch before approaching the foot of the bed.

Johann Storm was fast asleep. Goldilocks in her perfect berth.

Not even a full week had gone by since the other man had unknowingly spoken with him over the Wireless broadcast. He felt an odd distance between them now, the sort of distance bred by secret-keeping and time. But it was only a little time gone - both between when they met and when Johann had simply disappeared.

Balfour kicked off his shoes and climbed on to the bed, where he sat cross-legged to watch his partner sleep. The silence of the flat (a London siren somewhere across the city) wasn't long uninterrupted. "How long have you been there? And what day is it?""

He took the offered hand without thinking, giving it a squeeze as the German wizard stretched across the tangled blue sheets, all pale skin and tiredness. "Friday. Was beginning to wonder if the Jarvies had gotten to you." Balfour remarked, dropping the first hint into Johann's sleepy consciousness. "Are you alright for some coffee or do you need more sleep?"

There wasn't any urgency to his voice. He couldn't imagine what it felt like to lose a parent, irregardless of reputation, and right now it seemed more important to understand Johann's state of mind than to launch into a what exactly is this relationship heart-to-heart.

"Friday." A familiar hand took his and he blinked, trying to focus on the owner of the voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was still Friday. He had slept a while but perhaps not long enough - at least it wasn't Sunday. That had happened before.

"Was beginning to wonder if the jarvies had gotten to you." Balfour remarked, providing a squeeze to his hand which Johann returned more softly.
"Hmph." He replied sleepily, not immediately making the connection to the fact he'd not told Balfour where he'd gone - or anyone - and had just taken off. The feeling of guilt, which had come after the anger had subsided, had brought him back. But shame had brought him back to Balfour's, considering he might be the only one who he might convince to forgive him.

"Are you alright for some coffee or do you need more sleep?" He rubbed at his eyes, stifled a yawn.
"Awake now." He replied quietly and blinked, closing his hand more around Balfour's, lips trying to form words of apology, not knowing what to say, looking up at Balfour from the pillow, free hand raking his black curls back.

"I should have told you," He spoke softly, eyes a little fearful of what he'd done, of how Balfour felt, worried he was angry. "Balfour, I'm sorry." He blinked slowly. Without letting go, he leaned over, curling his body to reach his lips to his lover's knuckles before letting go, feeling he might be holding Balfour there.

His long legs curled up and he sat up, looping his arms around his knees over the top of the sheet, head on a level with Balfour's, expression worried. He tried to read his lover's face, blinking away the dregs of sleep. He'd been so wrapped up in his own anguish he'd not stopped to think about what he was doing to anyone else.

Whiskey shook himself, somewhere nearby, a soft patter of ears on fur punctuating the moment. Johann's gaze dropped, uneasy.

"Coffee," He resolved, a hand briefly on Balfour's bent knee before he turned away, slipping from the sheets, dipping to a crouch beside the bed to find something to wear in his bag.

Whereas in times past he'd have felt fine to be before Balfour naked, his heart didn't feel this was the time. There were explanations, and he had some making up to do. Just as soon as he'd pulled on a t-shirt.

He tried not to say anything immediately - couldn't bring himself to say that Johann shouldn't have to apologise for his reactions to a tragic situation, much less look so tortured at the prospect of confessing it. Perhaps it was more important for him to talk than it was to hear a response. Get it off his chest.

So Balfour didn't speak, though he felt a prick of disappointment when his hand was released, and he got up to fetch the coffee while the other wizard was getting dressed. A flick of the wand had sent ahead for hot water and ground beans but the notorious nature of his coffee pot needed a hands-on approach. It was one of those things kept around for the sake of guests.

By the time he returned to the room - his own mug steaming with black tea - Johann was in a decent state of dress. He handed him the drink, slipping in a fleeting kiss on the cheek before he could perch himself on the reading armchair by the wardrobe. Everything in his body language was neutral.

That was something you learned to be around beasts when you weren't entirely certain what they were feeling. Even if he did have suspicions.

"So." Balfour leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he peered into the tea. "I ought to get some things straight with you. In the interest of being direct." He scratched his stubble thoughtfully and then looked up. "You're free to do as you like. I mean... I was worried. I'm still worried, thank you, but I'm not mad. Alright?"

As a young boy, he'd run away from home enough times to know that when people were angry it was only because they were concerned. His temper was better saved for issues that deserved it.

Balfour wondered if he was coming across as terse so he smiled faintly, more weariness in it than warmth. "A warning would be nice next time but let's not linger on that." He glanced at Whiskey, who had leapt on to the bed in their absence and was trying to conserve heat. "I'm just glad to see you're in one piece. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

There was an implication in the tone of his voice, however, that he did need to be told something. Looking into the events of Wolfgang's murder from the outside was an oddly cold and detached act. Seeing Johann here, within literal reach, brought it into a personal light. He wanted to untangle the details between them and hold him.

Balfour left the room as Johann rooted through his magically enlarged bag. Out came a pale grey t-shirt, a deep green lightweight sweater followed and he dusted off the sleeve where one of his quills had shed. A pair of black jeans followed. Whiskey lumbered onto the bed, taking advantage of the warmth, reclaiming his spot.

Johann straightened up and gave a last pull of his sweater hem as Balfour reappeared with two mugs. The kiss to his cheek settled his heart a little and he raised the mug just to inhale the fumes. Seeing Balfour sit down in the armchair, he folded his right leg and settled down on the end of the bed, pulling his bare left foot up to sit cross-legged as he preferred. His long pale fingers wrapped around the mug.

It was at this moment he realised the sand had reached the bottom of the legs of his jeans, from the walking he'd done on Slandermouth beach, shouting at the ferret-like insulters. He averted his eyes, deciding not to be seen brushing it onto Balfour's sheets. He'd take his wand to them later.

Balfour didn't look angry. He didn't look disappointed either. What was he thinking? Johann's eyes took in the lines beside his eyes, the line of his lips, the colour of his cheeks, and the way he sat and held his - not coffee, tea? He was looking for differences, changes, any hint.

"I ought to get some things straight with you. In the interest of being direct."

The words, although spoken in a steady tone, set Johann's heart thumping in his chest, and his hand visibly tightened around the coffee, dreading what might be next.

"You're free to do as you like. I mean... I was worried. I'm still worried, thank you, but I'm not mad. Alright?"

At I'm not mad Johann's expression changed - sudden relief. His coffee mug gave a slight dip as his arms lost a little of the pent up tension and he inhaled. Worried he could deal with - plenty of people worried.

He nodded a few times, mutely, thankful of this prompt clarification. His exhalation over the coffee disturbed the rising steam.

"A warning would be nice next time but let's not linger on that."
"Yes…" Johann replied, almost inaudibly.
"I'm just glad to see you're in one piece. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

His blue eyes glanced up to Balfour, mouth forming a straight line a moment before he raised the coffee to drink from it at last, deciding how he could begin to explain himself.

"I panicked." He admitted, lowering the coffee, uneasy. "And when things get too much I run away." He winced at the confession, but felt he owed it to Balfour to explain. "I should have let you know I was alright, but I didn't know if you heard me…" He puffed out his cheeks a moment, deciding that his radio interview could wait until later.

"I should have been there for my mother, but I was so angry." He passed the cup from one hand to the other, tension returning to his hands, so he flexed them one at a time.
"I ended up in the northwest. I -."

He paused, lips apart, looking at Balfour oddly, his brain having made a connection with something, but the connection was fleeting and he'd lost it again in his sleepiness.

"I've really, really f--ed up, Balfour." He dragged a hand through his curls, and closed his eyes, wishing he could take it all back a week.

Running away was something he could understand - sometimes it felt like he'd run away for so long that he came full circle by returning to Britain. Johann's sleeping troubles were a microcosm of the conundrum: it left you exhausted but restless, on the edge of sleep yet never quite feeling you deserve the rest.

Balfour put aside his tea and leaned back in the armchair to let his gaze steady itself. For a moment he felt keenly that the world was full of men like them. Angry, lost in their own desire to steal away, tired. The feeling passed.

It was too melancholic and only one of them could afford that tonight. "I've really, really f--ed up, Balfour." Johann closed his eyes, alone at the foot of the bed. He might as well have been an ocean away.

"Unless you're trying to tell me you've committed patricide, I don't think you have." Balfour observed in a soft, grounding voice. "Johann. There isn't anything wrong with-- you can't berate yourself every time..." he trailed off with a sound of frustration. "Will you look at me?"

Relenting to the desire to close the space between them, Balfour rose and went to the other man, where he knelt on the floor and took him by the sides of his face.

"You are allowed to feel like shit." He said this firmly and with enough conviction that perhaps he really believed it. "And you're allowed to run away, and scream or shout or cry. I'm sorry you couldn't be there for your mother but you can't bloody help anyone when you're hurting so badly in a place nobody else can see."

Christ. That was a mouthful. Balfour touched his forehead to his partner's, breathing in deeply and trying not to contemplate how worked up he'd actually become over this entire thing. That spoke volumes about how much he had come to care for Johann over a short span of time.

He silently cursed himself. "Tell me what I can do to help you."

"Unless you're trying to tell me you've committed patricide, I don't think you have."

The blunt statement, however softly delivered, made Johann's face crease in pain at the thought. He dipped his head to reach the cup of coffee to the floor to one side, not quite sure how to react. He was nowhere near capable to commit such an act, though he was sure some had thought it. The voice on the Haunting Hour had speculated.

"Johann. There isn't anything wrong with-- you can't berate yourself every time... Will you look at me?" Balfour's voice was tinged with frustration, and Johann let out an equally frustrated sigh, dropping his hand from his head.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Balfour appear close before him. Strong hands enveloped his face and he could do nothing else but meet Balfour's gaze in urgency.

"You are allowed to feel like shit. And you're allowed to run away, and scream or shout or cry. I'm sorry you couldn't be there for your mother but you can't bloody help anyone when you're hurting so badly in a place nobody else can see."

Johann's eyes were wide with surprise. On Monday he'd been too lost in his own head to hear words like this. He'd made excuses, lied to his mother to stop her from worrying about him when she was struck dumb with shock. Balfour was entirely right, and yet entirely wrong all at the same time. He couldn't be a coward and abandon his family, he had to put it aside and scream and shout later. But the words helped, as did the touch after four long days of distance from anyone he knew.

Their foreheads met, and Johann took a shuddered breath in time with Balfour's, words caught in his throat.

"Tell me what I can do to help you."

Johann studied Balfour at close range, gaze intense. With only a moment's hesitation he firmly pressed his lips to Balfour's, seeking out a certain physical comfort a lover could provide. His rational brain didn't see the action coming. It was not a neat kiss at all, but it was a way to convey without words that the question was all Johann needed to hear.

His hands found Balfour's sweater, and he sat back just enough to put distance between their faces so he could read Balfour's expression.
"Let me stay a few days." He asked, "Just to give me enough time." He blinked slowly, and realised the reasoning was just in his head and he needed to explain: ".. to see my mother tomorrow, do what needs to be done. Decide what to do next…"

He dipped his head a moment. Something was nagging at the back corner of his mind. He looked up, frowning to himself, as if listening to someone in the next room for a moment.

"How did you..?" He asked, looking at Balfour with confusion, "Slandermouth. How did you know I was…?" The question was incomplete, Johann studying Balfour's face with a new intensity he usually reserved for strangers he didn't trust, only he trusted Balfour.

He stopped himself from pulling back at the kiss, surprised but deriving from its nature more than he would have from any spoken word. When Johann's lips left him it was all he could do not to follow them.

"Let me stay a few days. Just to give me enough time."  The explanation that followed was completely unnecessary - Balfour was in a hopeless state of mind, more than willing to give his partner anything asked of him right now - although it gave rise to a sense of admiration for that innate desire to do what was right.

Apples do fall far from their trees, surely. "Stay as long as you need," he replied as he watched Johann's gaze return to meet his with a different expression. Something had obviously clicked into place. He felt the suspicion, perhaps imagined it in the blue eyes studying his face, and a twinge of guilt prodded his conscience.

It wasn't that he wanted to avoid telling the truth. That could have been accomplished by keeping his mouth shut earlier. The truth was simple - the logic behind his actions that night were more complicated. He hardly knew how to articulate it.

"Slandermouth. How did you know I was…?"

Balfour's turn to look down, a hand idly resting on the hem of Johann's trouser cuff as he noted the sand that had gathered there. He gently shook the material before standing up and shifting to sit on the edge of the bed next to the wizard; a heavy sigh escaped him and Whiskey whimpered sympathetically behind their backs.

"I know because you told me, Mr Storm." Balfour finally looked back to Johann, his voice lowered in its best imitation of the Haunting Hour charm used to disguise it. A faint American accent beneath the velvety smoothness. "I wondered when the Knut would drop," he grimaced - remembered his own clumsy handling of the predicament.

A sensible man might have known better than to let the personal and professional intersect, considering the almost illicit nature of the Wireless show. Knox had been furious with him for letting Johann talk. She drew the line at broadcasting grief.

Gods knew where he drew his line anymore. "That was me on the Haunting Hour."

He drew breath to apologise, and then abruptly decided not to. Balfour had no idea how Johann would react to this. Everyone he had told about his clandestine occupation seemed to have a different opinion about it but few had actually been on air with him, much less in relation to such a sensitive subject.

Johann's eyes followed Balfour's move to come and sit beside him. He became very still, something about the way Balfour moved suggested this wasn't an easy answer.

"I know because you told me, Mr Storm."

Oh Merlin.

His lips formed a silent oh and he inclined away from Balfour, eyebrows raised, eyes widening. How - no - this couldn't be right. How could it be that he'd been listening to Balfour all those late nights as he worked or tried to sleep, not knowing?

What timing that the moment they were involved, he decided to finally make contact over the wireless? What terrible, cruel twist was that?

"I wondered when the knut would drop."

His gaze shifted quickly over Balfour's expression, down his body, taking in the telltale signs of stress, the extra line that appeared on Balfour's brow, the downturn of his lips, the tension in his shoulders. This was truth, this was not some elaborate and out of place lie.

"That was me on the Haunting Hour."

"You…!" Johann's response was caught somewhere in his throat, too quiet to sound offended, more surprised, breathy.

"How did I miss that?" Still slack-jawed he blinked, looking away from Balfour, his head putting things together. He pressed his hands together and brought them against his mouth, staring across at Balfour's empty armchair.

"I've listened to you for months!" He exclaimed, more alarmed at himself for missing the evidence than he was at first that Balfour was the voice. He never missed things!

"You let me -" He rounded on Balfour suddenly, anger creeping into his voice as he began, though he snapped his mouth shut to stop himself and looked away again. His mind was jumping from one thought to another - quickly making and then dismissing connections. He exhaled and looked back to Balfour.

"Why did you let me?" He asked in a more reasonable tone, "I mean," he reached out to Balfour's hand, laying his atop his lover's, "I chose to speak, but you indulged me?"

A look of bewilderment crossed his face at the immediate recoil, and he very nearly took a moment to marvel at the priorities of Johann's inexplicable mind - it continued to surprise him. Balfour was almost relieved at the hint of anger, having expected it foremost, though his heart sank nonetheless as the other wizard looked away.

When he felt the hand on his, he forced himself to be still. "I chose to speak, but you indulged me?" He didn't want to answer that question in the way that a misbehaving child could not explain his vexatious behaviour; every inch of him wanted to get up and move.

Pace the floors or busy his hands. Instead he schooled his expression and looked down at their hands, brow wrinkled with thought.

"Indulged isn't exactly the word." Balfour couldn't keep the wry, self-deprecating tone out of his voice. This was absurd. Tonight shouldn't be about him. "I had to make a decision in the split-second it took for me to recognise your voice and have a response." That sounded cold even in his ears and he bit the inside of his cheek.

He could hear himself talking into the microphone - could still feel his gut stutter at the surprise, his mouth moving instinctually and with far more pragmatism than he knew possible. Balfour turned his palm upwards and intertwined his fingers with Johann's, contemplating the pale skin distractedly.

His gaze was intense but obviously in some other time or place.

"Either I was Balfour or I was the host. And the host doesn't have any business censuring calls-" Not even from lamenting boys who have run away from home, he thought and noted the pricking of his conscience. "- so I put you through. I played the part." Odin knew that he'd played it long enough to do so without hesitation.

But first instincts were not always the best ones. For survival, perhaps. Whatever he had with Johann - whatever he drew from his intimate, loving relationships with other people - was more than survival.

"If it hurt you, I am sorry." Balfour forced himself to glance up now, knowing he couldn't avoid it. "I didn't anticipate these two lives mingling. I thought I could keep them separate."

"I had to make a decision in the split-second it took for me to recognise your voice and have a response." Balfour explained. Johann paused, thinking about the moment he'd 'called' in through the wireless set from the bed and breakfast in Slandermouth. How he hadn't recognised Balfour despite all the times he had listened to the Haunting Hour late at night. It probably wasn't the time to mention how he'd become a fan with his insomnia. Would he have done the same if the roles were reversed? Well, he'd told Balfour he had bigger balls, so yes, probably.

He listened to Balfour's explanations, trying to picture his lover on the other end with the accent. If had been a stranger, would it have been worse or better? Would a stranger have treated him with the same respect, or would they have preyed upon his words about the Ministry, or torn apart his thoughts on Hannah? He could have committed proper career suicide on air, at least he might be able to plead grief had stopped him from thinking straight, which it had, though he was still angry beneath the surface, only far more in control again.

"If it hurt you, I am sorry, I didn't anticipate these two lives mingling. I thought I could keep them separate." Balfour apologised, and Johann recognised the hurt in the other man's voice, that his pleasure in the radio could possibly have hurt a wizard he'd become fond of.

"Fate is a cruel mistress." Johann agreed, and squeezed Balfour's hand gently, mind trying to work through the possibilities and probabilities. It had done the calculations over and over the past few days, so it didn't take too long to factor in this new information behind his blue eyes.
"I unwittingly put you in a difficult position." He agreed, frowning to himself. "But," he leaned his shoulder against Balfour's as they sat side by side on the end of Balfour's bed, "I actually feel better for knowing it was you. Gods knows what I could have said otherwise." He looked to Balfour and raised both eyebrows, lips pressed into a straight line.

Sitting up again he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.
"No, we're good, Balfour. We're good. It's a weight off my mind to know." He lifted their clasped hands and kissed the other man's knuckles. "Your secret's safe."

Balfour let his shoulders relax as he listened, eyes on the other wizard's face the entire time - searching for the sincerity he identified with Johann, the propensity for earnestness far more attractive than any physical characteristic. It was there, shrouded by thought perhaps. His gaze fell on that eloquent mouth.

Stayed there, as his hands were brought forward and tenderly kissed. "Your secret's safe."

People were kinder than he deserved. Balfour nodded slowly and then turned slightly to press his lips against Johann's forehead in a chaste, feverish kiss. He didn't know how to express himself without putting on an act, as he did on the Haunting Hour, or without resorting to action. Neither of those were things he could do at this moment. Something about it reduced him to feeling like the inarticulate young wizard who had disappeared from Britain nearly eighteen years ago.

But he badly wanted to help Johann, somehow.

"It's a bit warm in here." Balfour observed quietly, not quite drawing away yet. "How about a change of scenery, hm?"

---


Not all the tenants of Atreus knew about the rooftop garden that their landlord maintained. It overlooked the glittering, glimmering nighttime glamour of Knightsbridge but perpetuated the ambiance of a country yard. Slender saplings - mandarins, pears, apples - grew from fragrant blossoming bushes, interrupted only by crisscrossing paths.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Balfour emerged from the stairway enclosure that led up here. The pungent scent of fruit and flowers hit him first, and then the brisk autumn wind. An enchantment did little to keep the garden warm.

"I come up here to smoke, usually-" he said as he turned around to shut the door behind Johann. "- but it's the privacy I enjoy." Even so, he procured a pack of cigarettes from his cardigan and shook out a stick. "Another bad habit?" Balfour offered his partner the pack with a dry, crooked smile.

The autumnal air was not quite as brisk as the northern sea air from previous days, but it was still cooler than the flat below them that seemed to suffocate. The last remnants of the potion-induced slumber was leaving his weary limbs as they emerged into what appeared to be a well maintained garden on the roof.

As Balfour closed the door behind them, Johann turned slowly on the spot, slipping his hands into the front pocket of the hooded top he was wearing, looking about himself. Sometimes magic could take you by surprise, and this was definitely one of those moments. His feet carried him across the gravel as he got a feel for the scale.

"I come up here to smoke, usually, but it's the privacy I enjoy."
"I bet," He uttered in response, gaze moving past the garden to the views across London. From up above it didn't look quite so bad, as he had reflected once from the roof of St Mungo's as the full moon had set.

"Another bad habit?" Balfour offered him to smoke. There was the slightest hesitation before Johann accepted. In his twenties he'd tried all manner of things while abroad, some of which had helped, others had not. Smoking hadn't stuck - sleeping potion had.

"Thanks," He gestured with the cigarette between his fingers, as yet unlit. "I hadn't expected a garden," he admitted to Balfour, "especially not one so cultivated." His study of herbology was down to the amount he needed to know for his job, and mostly down to etymology, so the compliment of cultivation and beauty was purely based on the appearance from a layman.

Once lit, he took a drag, his face betraying his inexperience with smoking to the point he laughed as Balfour observed it. The embarrassment didn't stick as the feeling of laughing after such a tense week lightened his heart.

"I like them better on you," he confessed with a smile, deciding to lead a wander through the garden. "Who looks after it?" He asked, gesturing to the garden around them. He was trying to imagine Ira Almasy gardening. It seemed an entirely alien concept. Pruning with some gloves perhaps, no she'd have staff.

In amongst everything he found somewhere to perch, and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, leaning back to stare up into the sky, wrapping one arm around his stomach to keep in the heat as the wind blew.

"Such a shame you can't see the stars in London with the light." He remarked with a sigh, "The sky is full of stars on the coast. I'd forgotten quite how many with living in the city." He drew on the cigarette and exhaled upwards. "Not that I'd recommend it for a holiday." He curled his nose a moment at the thought. Slandermouth was alright enough, but nothing special. He'd gone for somewhere people wouldn't expect.

He withdrew his left arm from his stomach and held it out in gesture for Balfour to join him beneath the sodium bleached night sky amongst the fruit trees, hoping to slip his arm around his lover's waist and lean his head on Balfour's shoulder to push away the thoughts at the edge of his mind.

"Tell me about your week." He asked, "I've missed you."

He meandered behind Johann as they made their way through the rooftop garden, cigarette in hand. It was a fine night to be up here and the raspy scent of tobacco mingled sweetly with light floral undertones. The remnants of laughter still tugged at his lips and his eyes lazily followed his guest - appreciating the way he moved, marvelled at the garden.

"House elves, I imagine." Balfour answered between breathes of winding smoke, and wondered if he had ever really seen anybody else up here besides Ira Almasy or the odd neighbour. Perhaps the witch secretly harboured a green thumb. He stopped to watch  Johann sit against one of the low walls separating their path from the trees, a canopy of branches casting a weave of shadows across his face although it did little to obstruct the heavens.

Their eyes turned to the sky. It was indeed an urban firmament. London wasn't fit for stargazers even if it drew the deepest dreamers.

Balfour smiled drolly at the mention of Slandermouth and took a quick drag, embers burning at the brink of his vision. "You ought to see the stars in Scotland," he couldn't help but think of the great and dark expanse yawning across the Galloway forest, recollecting the sense of insignificance and wonder you felt when roaming underneath an unending universe. "They shine brighter, somehow."

Nostalgia speaking? He went home often enough not to suspect the rose-tinted glasses of childhood. Thinking about the estate meant having to think about family as well, and that rather ruined the idea.

He joined Johann on the low wall, trying not to let his heart do that absurd leap of excitement you experienced when someone you liked said that they'd missed you - that they thought of you in your absence. The wizard felt the arm slipped around his waist, the weight on his shoulder.

The silence on the rooftop was nice. Groundfloor London was blocked out either by distance or magic. A nagging thought in the back of his mind wondered at the lack of birds, or any animals at all. They seemed to avoid the garden altogether.

"I've missed you as well." Balfour replied before turning his head to lean it lightly against Johann's, his hand resting on the other man's thigh. "My week. Hm." He wanted to know more about... everything. Wolfgang, Slandermouth, the courtroom murder. He wanted to know how Johann felt - but he knew how to take a cue.

This wasn't a time or place for confrontations.

"Well. When I wasn't masquerading as a rebel rouser," he began in a sardonic voice.  "I was at the Ministry, and then in Edinburgh. I'm afraid you'll need to meet my sister, or she won't forgive me for being an arse on the Wireless."

Among other things. Balfour tried not to grimace at the memory of his stinging cheek. His tone softened and he tapped his cigarette, ash caught in the light breeze. "But it can wait. I'm feeling rather greedy about keeping you to myself, if you don't mind..." he slid his hand to meet the one holding him. "At least for a little while."

"… as a rebel rouser…" Johann chuckled at the description, also laughing at himself because of the whole revolution spouting over the air. Caught up in the moment, and alone with dark thoughts and jarveys.

"… afraid you'll need to meet my sister, or she won't forgive me for being an arse on the Wireless."
"Nathaira?" He asked rhetorically, putting Edinburgh and sister together without missing a beat, eyes half closed as he enjoyed listening to Balfour's voice, partly through his shoulder and in the evening air. So, big sister knew of little brother's alter ego? He wondered how many others knew. It didn't seem likely to be too many, given the subject matter.

"… I'm feeling rather greedy about keeping you to myself…" Johann blushed, rather happy for Balfour to keep him all to himself in honesty!

"I do prefer your arse off the wireless," He admitted, lowering his hand with Balfour's to give it a brief squeeze above the wall they were perched on before returning his hand to Balfour's waist and sitting up straighter. He took one last drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out on the wall the other side before giving another small cough, unused to smoking, even though the two wizards closest to him did.

"And be greedy," he told Balfour, looking back their faces close, "after this week I'd like to think of nothing for a while." He leaned in a little and kissed Balfour softly, though it turned easily into something a longer kiss given the way they were sat and how good it felt to be back with him.

Realising, and remembering where they were - in Ira's garden after all, he inclined back ever so slightly to stop them, though a smile played on his lips.
"Definitely forgiven," He told Balfour quietly and looked up at the orange sky again, all sorts of odd thoughts crossing his mind for being back in London.
"I almost started a fight with Ed Pratt you know?" He told Balfour, still looking up, though his right hand clenched beside Balfour's hand on his thigh.  "I very nearly punched the Head Auror, right in front of Tamis Raynor." He looked back down to Balfour and shook his head at the thought.

Even now, the innocent offer to help him calm down seemed absurd: 
"He wanted to buy me coffee. And I wanted to punch his lights out."