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John’s house, 2020
“Rog? You got it on?”
“Yeah...” John looked eagerly up to the timid voice from where he was sat in the middle of the bed, a cloud of sheets sunken lightly under his frame. His foot caught the wadded ice-cream stained shirt as he moved, and his nose caught the offending vanilla scent. He grimaced. Whoops!
Roger’s ruddy cheeks greeted him from the doorway, shy face leaning against the frame, expectant over John’s reaction to the jumper - ill fitting, but so very John.
Oh boy. He felt sure he was thawing into a puddle, melting snowflakes dancing around his tummy and easing his concern from before.
The jumper was so big!
“Aw Rog!”
Not a moment later and he was already hovering around, feeling up the voluminous sleeve, which had fitted snugly on himself, yet could drown the other man in a sea of forest green. Torso oversized, arms far off proportion, Roger stood amused as John tugged at his arm to move him onto the rug - “so your feet aren’t cold!” - and scooted a step back, admiring his work.
That glee, that cheek, written everywhere all over that face.
It really had all been John’s fault. Uncoordinated spoon, topped gratuitously with only the Häagen-Dazs that John indulged himself in once in a while, missing a mouth and catching Roger’s poor jumper unawares instead.
There was the shock, the flurry of apology, the reassurances ... then the giggles.
Pesky white stain, they couldn’t help themselves.
“It smells sweet, though!”
“Be quiet.” he tried to dab at the stain, though it was useless.
“C’mon love, you can wear my stuff.” John had leapt off the bed, the forgotten ice cream tub tossed aside for later use, running to his wardrobe grinning as he stuck an arm in and proceeded to rifle through the wads of clothes for something suitable.
Roxy Music tee? Nah.
Some neon shirt he got from a festival a few years back with the wonky shoulders? Nah.
Blue blouse? Nah.
Have him go shirtless? He grinned impishly into the wardrobe at the fleeting idea. Nah, that’s cruel!
Besides, with the upcoming freeze the weatherman predicted, they’d have an iced Roger on their hands.
Oh, oh, this!
This seemed great.
The fluffed up beloved green-blue-picnic-mat-looking jumper he had pulled out when he reached further behind the rack, almost getting his hand stuck in the recess, seemed just perfect.
His favourite, right on his boy!
And perfect it was, wispy material now cradling the smaller man’s body while his boxer-clad legs, with their welcome bronze that John couldn’t help but linger upon, stuck out from underneath.
And the sleeves, oh boy.
The sleeves.
They were hilariously long, leaving them to flap and swing with every move Roger made, similar to an elephant.
Roger himself had noticed the resemblance. If only...
"The arms, Rog, they do look quite chic," chic and dwarfed, John echoed inside, snickering and warm, too caught up in his wit to miss the scheming smile that had begun to frolic upon the other man’s features.
His thoughts rapidly swung out the door, eyes saucering and breath escaping in a bewildered huh? as Roger lunged toward him and started swatting him with the sleeves.
“Oi!!”
It was useless, nearly tripping on his own legs in his futile attempts to avoid the flailing melee.
“Rog! Stoppittt!”
He pranced around the room demanding mercy, almost upsetting his own action-figure floor lamp in the process - Roger couldn’t understand him if he tried, words clipped by the slips of laughter in between.
And so the round-the-room continued, ducking the cushion swipes as he ran for the door and Roger was right on his tail - “to pay for all your vanilla-flavoured sins!” “they haven’t been at all vanilla, to be honest!” to which John could feel a snort grazing the back of his neck - in a chase that had them right down the corridor into the living room.
To anywhere, to escape!
Past the sofas, past the kitchen, where Jean had left her knife in mid-air at the yelps that had gotten louder, followed by a wrestling mass of boyish limbs that rushed past. The potato on the cutting board was spared while she spectated, brow raised, as was the left corner of her lips.
“I’m being attacked, Mum! Help!” John tried to dodge the swats, leaving her internally with all the questions, but externally with the infuriating motherly smile.
“Wai-” slight concern flitted through her face, though, as the back door slid open, the frigid air dove in, and out they were running, bare feet swallowed up by the damp grass.
“Agh, shit! Cold!” John jumped upon contact with the leftover autumn dew of the afternoon, surrendering to the flying sleeves, chest heaving and knees tottering as he tried to catch his breath.
“You aimed those slaps pretty bloody well, you know. And bloody hard.” he creased his nose and got a fabric tap on it in reply, along with it the lilting chuckle.
“Why, thank you,” Roger too tried to catch his breath, giving the taller man another little whack that had him caught in a dopey grin and a half, “...perhaps you could let me practice in the future?” his voice swirled, ever so close and cute, but dancing with the smirk that could cause such delightful trouble.
Trouble that John loved, indeed.
“Tease!”
Warm liquid heat spread in him at the thought despite the chilly garden they had found themselves in the middle of. With the little flapping monster enveloped in the green sea still by his side.
“But still, I’m not done with you yet!” John felt his arms being captured, almost knocking him over to the ground as he grinned, and being pulled fully to the grass.
“Oh, crap, it’s cold!” Laughter bubbled in John and couldn't help escaping, eyes like crescents as Roger grabbed onto him, final triumphant swats in mind.
Rolling around, they basked in the pinpricks of sunshine, ignoring the invasive dampness of the turf beneath them as John sought the final escape from a show of pocket-sized anger, wanting dearly to hug the man and smother Roger’s jumper-turned-drapery with his own arms.
Deciding he’d spare John and admittedly puffed out himself, they ceased, stealing a glance at one another while they basked in how their chests moved, taking in the leafy air, with a small mist exhaled.
Saved! John chuckled to himself.
For now.
They peered at one another, John fingering a loose thread of Roger’s - his - garment.
“Sorry, not sorry for chasing you.” Roger apologised, with not a hint of apology, as their eyes locked, with a smile like a cat that got the cream.
John laughed, a blithe sound, leaning in to whisper back to him,
“Sorry, not sorry for the ice cream.”
Roger scrunched in his sleeve and John jumped back, eyes closed and lopsided grin wide, ready for it to come flying floppily.
It never did.
He got a glower, and a peck on the lips instead.
Score!