1st Jan, 1895 — Padmore Winter Fair

Nick had made little progress towards marriage in the last year, although he had meant to – both for the prospect of a large dowry that might give him some leverage over the bookshop, and so that he, generally, felt less like a failure. (His only previous attempt at marriage, after all, had ended in the love of his life choosing someone else.)

He was certainly not looking to fall in love this time around – he had learned his lesson there – but he rather thought it might help if a woman actually found him agreeable enough to court him. Not that he knew why they wouldn’t, but... when he had passed that odd booth in Diagon Alley yesterday, he had, on a whim, figured that he could be more charming, more likeable.

It had probably been a waste of the sickles he’d been charged for it, to be honest. Better not think of it again. Nick had been loitering opposite the patch of the park being used for the snow sculpture competitions, cradling his mulled wine and eyeing up the nearest competitor to him, who was...

Ahem. Possibly the worst sculptor he had ever seen. Was this the magical or the non-magical bracket? He could scarcely even tell. He must have been staring for too long, because the snow-sculptor in question met his gaze. Nick bit his lip, fighting the urge to laugh. They really shouldn’t have let you join, he had been ready to remark, but in fact, what he heard come out of his mouth was instead, an utterly sincere sounding – “I was just thinking how wonderful it looks already! You must have done this before!”

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open to an adult character!

  

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In Harry's defense, some of the greatest artists were also scientists. Da Vinci. Michelangelo. Probably some others. Therefore, it was perfectly reasonable that he, a man of science, might have some latent artistic ability that had not, to this point in his life, revealed itself. And anyway, how hard could making a snow sculpture really be?

Very hard, apparently, because his snowman was looking decidedly more like a very small, but somehow hideous, snow drift. Could snow drifts even be beautiful or hideous? He hadn't thought so before today.

Turning at the sound of someone's voice, Harry was surprised by the man's praise--and the apparent sincerity of it. Well. "Oh. Thank you. You're too kind." He looked at his snowman. Was it just him, or was it leaning ominously to one side?

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The following 1 user Likes Henry Berkwood's post:1 user Likes Henry Berkwood's post
   Nick Blott

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set by Bee! <3

An impressionist work of art, Nick wanted to say, sarcastically – they had better pay you to clear the park of snow instead. But apparently the more unkind he wanted to be, the less he felt his tongue would let him: instead, he stared at the younger fellow and the pile of snow that was slouching terribly in much the same way he was, the leaning tower of Pisa of snowmen, and still insisted, oddly and profusely bright, “No, really – you’re the winner in my book.”

Nick blinked at himself, and felt a flush spreading up his neck that was not from the cold weather. No, he definitely hadn’t meant that.

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Harry felt his own face redden. "Oh. That's--" Well, an objectively false statement, but the other man sounded so earnest about it. "I'm sure others' efforts are superior, but thank you."

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set by Bee! <3

The younger fellow was right about something – Nick was being too kind. He couldn’t quite work out what had gotten into him... and, horrifying as this was, to be blurting out all kinds of compliments to a stranger, if he walked away he’d never know how or why this was happening, would he?

So – he stepped a little closer instead, so that hopefully no one else would overhear him and judge his taste. Better to experiment on a stranger than someone he knew, right?

Only Nick noted the blush on the other man’s face too late – he had already opened his mouth again. “Oh, you’re welcome. You must be an artist by trade?” He had hoped the question, all words he had specifically intended this time, would come out as sarcastically as he had meant them, but no – no trace of sarcasm to be heard. To his ears, the words sounded still entirely friendly. Too friendly by half. God. He wasn’t trying to make friends (or... anything else). Surely the bloke couldn’t believe him, that Nick thought he was any good?

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Harry laughed. If the man was having a go at him, he was remarkably straight-faced about it. That, or he was extremely near-sighted. Those were the only explanations that Harry could think of. "Not remotely,"" he said. "I'm a potioneer and a scientist if anything." A renaissance man he clearly was not.

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set by Bee! <3

If Nick had been himself, he would have certainly said something sardonic about that, and not just all this fucking flattery!

“A man of many talents, then,” he heard himself enthuse instead, as if snowman-making and science were at the forefront of a very long list of useful skills and abilities; he had also outstretched a hand to shake his for no conceivable reason. “Blott,” he introduced, with a smile he had not intended to be so hopeful or so broad.

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Harry accepted the man's hand and shook it. "Berkwood," he said. "Are you an artist yourself, Mr. Blott?" He'd think artists would have a more discerning eye, but they were also know for their eccentricity, he supposed.

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set by Bee! <3

Berkwood. It was rather a relief he didn’t know the younger man socially – Nick was not sure how he would live this down if he ever had to see him again, to be quite honest.

Honesty was too much to ask for from his lips today, though, apparently, no matter how he tried. Was this something to do with his New Year’s request? It couldn’t be. But he supposed in another situation he might have passed for charming, if here and now he did not just sound deranged. “Not at all,” Nick said modestly. “A mere wordsmith – a translator. Though I can’t seem to find the words for you.”

Because all the wrong words were coming out instead, and instead Nick was making a massive fool of himself. Was this hell? It felt like hell.

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