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For well over a hundred years, Terrence has been Gideon’s best friend. They’re close.
Once in a while, a kind of feeling ripples over Gideon, a sudden rush of affection for Terrence, and he is not quite sure that attributing it to friendship is the most accurate thing.
-
1.
For the sixth or seventh time that night, Terrence barely catches himself before he slips off the uneven steps below the ring at Place Ville-Marie.
Gideon pauses mid-laugh to call out, "Careful!"
Stumbling to regain balance, Terrence replies, "Got it, got it." He extends his arms out and skips a few more steps with a grin taunting fate.
Gideon sighs and keeps walking down to follow him. He winces as the slant edge of one troublesome step catches his foot and he’s forced to jerk back to keep upright. "Who built these things…" Gideon mutters, his third time barely catching himself. "It’s like the steps were designed to kill someone."
"Or set a record for the number of broken legs," Terrence joins in.
They’ve been walking cycles around downtown the last few hours, enjoying the fresh 3am air and jaywalking empty roads. (Some benefits to being what they are — lack of sleep won’t kill them.) Thanks to the eternal construction on surrounding streets, they’ve made quite a few rounds through those steps tonight, Gideon slowing his pace a half-step to walk beside his slightly-slower-walker friend.
Terrence regales Gideon with stories of all the people he has met since they last spoke, and Gideon hums his amusement. It is truly never a dull moment with Terrence. The other boy’s fascination with life is so clear, he paints vivid images of each individual, their breath, the intent with which they speak.
It is a particular story about some random middle schooler with an orange striped backpack (Terrence fixated on this detail, Gideon baffled) sat on the middle of the sidewalk, no business being where she was in downtown Toronto, seeming lost if not for the way she looked so unfazed and swore up and down she knew where she was better the personification of the city’s university himself, that has Gideon barking laughter and Terrence shaking his head with a smile. "Toronto people," he huffs.
Gideon resists the urge to point out Terrence is, undeniably, one of those Toronto people.
Terrence makes a gesture with his head that means it is Gideon’s turn to share. They have been doing this, their slightly-uneven game of pass, for a good hour. Terrence is the main speaker: he chatters like downhill rolling, drama in every story and a pause before every fantastic climax. He likes to talk and Gideon thinks he would never tire of listening.
On the other hand, Terrence also makes a brilliant listener. He nods his head quick when Gideon speaks and chimes in on beat to build on top of any topic. Gideon is endlessly grateful—he knows he’s clumsier with words than his friend, but it is genuine the way Terrence gives him the stage. It’s a nice thing to know he studies his words and likes to hear his thoughts.
Halfway while Gideon is constructing a story about these two in the grocery store, once again Terrence stumbles with a yelp. He lurches forward—dangerously close to slipping off the stair—
Gideon reaches a hand out to his shoulder to catch him the moment before he falls.
Terrence’s eyes are wide as he dangles from the edge of a stair, suspended by Gideon’s grip alone. "Ah… Thanks." He shifts back onto the step with some effort.
Gideon keeps a hold on his shoulder, firm. "…I somehow doubt you’re making it out of tonight alive."
"So little faith in me?"
"Your funeral."
Terrence scoffs. He shrugs off Gideon’s arm. "It’s fine. I know these stairs now!"
The effect is ruined when a few seconds later he trips again and Gideon is not quite quick enough to catch him. He slides down a couple steps with a curse.
When Gideon catches up to him, the other university winces. "Ah. Ok, but now I actually do have the hang of it."
Worry slides off Gideon’s face and he just sighs. Terrence and the way he shrugs every concern off of him, no thought to his own well-being…Gideon is well familiar with that tendency.
He offers a hand up—Terrence bats it aside. "Ehh. Sit for a bit."
"Tired?"
"Nah, I just don’t feel like walking anymore."
Gideon raises an eyebrow. "The stairs that bad? …Do you need me to hold your hand?" he asks dryly.
"Are you offering?" Terrence shoots back, straight-faced. A second later he cracks up.
Gideon can’t hold back a smile of equal mirth. He sits down and shuffles over next to Terrence.
Resting his head on one hand, Terrence looks through the streetlights shining down McGill College Avenue. "I never get tired of seeing the city at night."
"Hm," Gideon says. "It is quite nice."
"Right?" Terrence hums. "You get to see everything they’ve built. When I step back and look back it’s incredible how much happens in one lifetime."
"Toronto’s changed a lot."
"Yeah. I love the city. But there’s something so nice about your Montreal, it has a good balanced vibe. You get to see everything, the mountains and the history and the shiny new towers."
"My, such flattery from you."
"But it’s true! So charming." Terrence nudges Gideon’s shoulder. "Look, and over there it’s you!" He points true straight to the Arts Building, its roof barely visible.
"Oh, quiet," Gideon mutters, but his face is decorated with a smile and his cheeks are warm in the cool air.
"We could totally climb Mont Royal after this," says Terrence with a thoughtful look on his face, still looking up ahead. "Want to?"
He doesn’t even have to ask. Gideon would follow him anywhere. "I’m game. Careful not to break yourself when you fall over a vine in this darkness."
Terrence flips him off. "These stairs are stupid," he says, all cheer. His chuckle cuts through the cold sky.
"Absolutely."
They laugh some more about that, the two of them on a quiet moonless night, tripping down stairs and drunk on delight.
-
2.
Many inter-university conferences ago, Terrence had started the tradition of rounding everyone up after the meeting to go for some games of Poker.
It had been a nice little treat after the dreadfully long conference—even Gideon when not in the presence of his Dean would admit the monthly assemblies were a chore, never did putting them all in one room produce any ideas that counted as productive. Come closing ceremonies, the loom of admin and the weight of their positions meant that few of them were there in both body and mind.
Spending the rest of the day in familiar company without that depressing responsibility was always pleasant, they had agreed.
Others had picked up the idea after that, until it became more normal than not to see a small crowd of universities squeezed around a table in an adjacent room, taking up every square of space and chattering all the while. Even Gideon had been dealt into the games.
More recently, though, Terrence had made his excuses and apologized profusely for not being able to tag along. “Ahhh, I’m afraid I need to talk with my Provost about something,” or “The President wants to introduce me to X’s President,” or, “Need to plan this for next week—but I’ll be there next time!” Gideon had nodded his understanding each time, though he always felt the absence of his friend dearly.
It’s a welcome surprise when after their most recent meeting, where the host’s Vice Provost seemed to drag every word in their speech four times the usual length, Terrence says, “Hey. We should go for a game after this.”
This time they’re sat in ascending rows to a lecture hall, Terrence directly one row down from Gideon. To deliver his statement, he had tipped his body backwards over the chair until his head rested upside-down on Gideon’s desk.
More childish that Terrence’s usual displays, his usual attitude more diligent-earnest, but hadn’t the meeting worn all of their patience thin?
"For Poker?"
Terrence nods. Dark hair spreads across Gideon’s notebook and mixes with eraser sheddings, dark eyes twinkle lazily. "Yeah, how about it?"
Gideon flicks his forehead. “Face where you sit.”
More childish from Gideon too. He’ll blame it on Terrence’s influence.
Terrence grins wickedly at him, then swings himself up onto the lower table until he’s facing Gideon, sat backwards to the front.
Gideon snorts. Trust Terrence to listen to him in words, not spirit.
"Poker? Poker?" He calls in a mockery of honking geese.
“Do you have the time for that?” Gideon would never turn down an offer from Terrence to hang out, but he’s loath to set the other behind on his duties.
Terrence stretches. "Yeah, don’t worry. Caught up on it last week."
"Okay then."
"Great! I’ll start asking everyone. Be right back."
“You don’t have to do that on your own,” Gideon says, rising from his seat. “I’ll help you wrangle them."
Terrence shrugs. "All good, I like talking to people.”
True enough. That was Terrence — he treated everyone like they were a familiar friend, easily starting conversation on the most random topics and starting a few merry exchanges with strangers with personal "silly-talk" starters.
“Also, Louis is here this time. Might finally be able to get him to play with us.”
Lately, Terrence had been bringing up the name of the Waterloo native once a day. Humming, Gideon wonders if he could be harbouring a bit of a soft spot — Terrence usually charmed everyone he met, only withdrawn, solemn, Louis had been able to resist making conversation with him. It seemed to make Terrence determined to win him over ("He’s just a little odd," Terrence had said with a dash of fondness. "I wonder what he likes to talk about.")
Gideon doubts Terence has noticed it himself.
"Okay," he relents. "Go wild. Go crazy." He slips back down into the chair.
Terrence perks up. "Ok!" He slips off the desk and starts making whirlwind rounds of conversation.
Chuckling to himself, Gideon watches it happen. From past experience, Gideon knows it’ll be a good while before Terrence has had his fill of people. Truly Terrence is a social force to be reckoned with.
Gideon is glad Terrence has turned away, because he doesn’t think he could cover up the terribly fond look on his own face.
-
3.
A decent number of people have called Gideon unapproachable. Stiff, formal, the opposite of sentimentality, he has heard these descriptors secondhand and sometimes to his face.
Was that really true?
Then:
He had breached the subject with Terrence a while ago, laying out careful words and asking what was his opinion, was he really, "The worst person to talk to about anything remotely personal?" (A conversation between him and Shoaib had spun awkward and Shoaib had announced with exasperation, “You’re impossible.” His honest ask, "Am I?" and Shoaib had stared and stared, flabbergasted.)
Terrence had laughed in his face. "That’s such a you response."
Gideon had grumbled, feeling a little bit slighted.
Waving a hand carelessly, Terrence had assuaged his concerns in the next thing he said. "No, I don’t think so. You can be a bit…" He had thought a long time to find the right word. "Hard to reach. But I like chatting with you. If you ask me, talking to you is easy."
That had given him some amount of relief.
Now:
9am at Robarts, Gideon types up work on his laptop and waits for Terrence to join him. They’d made plans to kill the morning together, working parallel on piles of paperwork during Gideon’s visit to Toronto and justify his "business trip".
Gideon’s early. He always tries to be, it lets him prepare himself and get a head start.
A consequence, with so few library patrons at this hour, some student had approached him to ask if he could watch their stuff for a few minutes, and when they came back to pick up it up they’d tried to kick off a conversation about what Gideon was working on. Gideon had been caught off guard and he’d minimized his tabs with a shortcut like someone definitely suspicious, staring owl-eyed before getting out a flustered, "Ah… Ah yes, of course. Homework for this, uh, class."
It’s not the most graceful way to start off the day for sure. If he wasn’t such an awkward bastard, maybe…
If Terrence had been there, he’s sure it would’ve saved it and turned into a delightful little exchange.
Terrence isn’t here yet, though.
Gideon’s fingers twitch on the mouse, sending the cursor in a triangular loop on his screen.
Hm. Why is Terrence the first person his mind goes to? When did he start to rely on the other so much?
His is a very apparent absence, it makes Gideon unsettled.
There is just something a bit off, without a hand to clap his shoulder or a tease to fill the dead air or a quiet thought to discuss or a steady presence in the same room. Terrence has a special energy.
Without the other university… Loneliness isn’t quite the right word for it. It is just not the right state of things. It is him, alone-alone.
It might be that none of these are accurate things to describe the feeling. Well. He doesn’t like it is all.
Suddenly annoyed with his own slip of foolish sentiment, Gideon spins the cursor in large angry spirals.
"Hey, what’s got you distracted?" On cue, in walks Terrence from behind him, Tim Hortons and laptop in hand.
There he is. His voice summons a swell of relief in Gideon, a reassurance that forces him to again ask himself when he became so used to having Terrence by his side.
He betrays none of this, and asks, "What took you?" (It is still an hour before when they agreed to meet.)
Terrence smiles, waving the Tim Hortons. “Coffee—not all of us are functional before 9, or even 10, on a Saturday. And Timbits—for a snack.”
“Overpriced and too sweet.” Gideon wrinkles his nose. When Terrence stretches out a hand with an offered chocolate Timbit, Gideon grabs it anyways.
This amuses Terrence terrribly.
Gideon gives him his moment. He’s a little impressed Terrence made it to the library so early. Terrence is on top of things, minus weekend mornings, coffee is only sometimes part of his daily vitamins.
He’ll take this for its face value meaning: Terrence, getting up an hour earlier to spend an hour more with him. The thought makes his heart content to the point of shame.
Terrence sets up his laptop, Gideon opens back up emails and word files. When he leans back, there is a back against his own.
With Terrence he is the most at ease he ever feels.
-
4.
On an aimless drive across the 401, Gideon tries and fails to educate Terrence on the wonder of theatre. Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekhov, Moliere! His audience is captive — steering the wheel — while he steps up to prattle from the passenger’s seat.
He makes oversized hand gestures, the way he always does when he gets heated, and Terrence chuckles and shakes his head. "Man. You always get so excited when you talk about this."
Gideon gasps for effect. "Of course!"
While there is not much Gideon gets attached to, drama is one of the things that holds such a place in his heart.
Perhaps it would not be expected of him, the serious straight-man. He has always held himself to that high standard. His dress, his speech, his routine - nothing out of place. The effort is conscious.
Perhaps, inversely, it could be assumed of Gideon, he who concentrates so strongly on his self-performance.
Well, beyond just assumption. Gideon speaks about theatre from a biased biased position.
Once, he had acted.
In his youth, when his age had been in the 1 hundreds and not 2 hundreds, he had snuck into the Player’s Theatre run by his students and performed in a sprinkling of shows.
It had been a thrill to be under the spotlight, wear the face of a dozen characters more real than him, and perform like flying on that stage. With the other cast members, he had been given a moment to be a McGillian with other McGillians.
That had been a fun decade, a proper spectacle. Ruffling costumes, laughing like lion-roar, playing tragedy and comedy, taking curtain bow hand in hand.
Still, cleaning up after rehearsal or come final show, he had felt time creeping up to him with all its demands. Gideon had never held any doubt he would have to give up the indulgence one day.
For the longest time, (selfishly selfish), he could not bear to. One more precious song and spell, one more.
In the end, he had left it behind with his other immature habits. He had to: for image, for work and for little brother Mackenzie. The theatre halls on campus still whisper to him now. It’s just another thing he cannot give in to.
Gideon doesn’t know why he’s never told Terrence. Gideon’s talked around it, giving far too many details into backstage he shouldn’t know about, playing off shows he’s performed in as shows he could have reasonably seen. Terrence doesn’t suspect. It’s also unlike him to ask after old secrets, so it’s not like he could know.
Somehow though, admitting to it after all this time feels more personal. As if telling Terrence would be telling something else, too.
It’s not exactly that he fears his friend would judge him. Terrence is not that type. He might turn his nose up at classics —"(Snort) Gideon, the only people who enjoy these old things are their authors already six feet under." — but with people he is always an open mind and honest heart.
Maybe it’s that part of Terrence that draws out Gideon’s old acting spirit from time to time.
“I think you would write good performance scripts,” Gideon says without a second thought. A moment later when his mind catches up, he’s torn between a flush of embarrassment and the ringing notion that yes, that’s true.
Terrence shoots him a look. "What, you serious?"
"Yeah." Gideon knows Terrence writes.
Terrence shakes his head in a quick swipe. "I dunno. It feels kinda~" Several interesting expressions cross his face. One of them, Gideon realizes, is bashfulness.
To be honest, Gideon is not entirely sure why. Terrence writes, and writes well. His preferred creations are essays, he’s shared a few of those studies of small pieces of humanity with Gideon and those had put musing smiles on his face.
"I’ve tried my hand writing scripts before and you write better than me, I’m sure you’d pick it up quick." This doesn’t seem to convince Terrence, his hands are gripped tight on the wheel.
Gideon adds, “I would act for them.” That might be a bit too strong. "If you want."
The car is quiet for a few seconds.
“Dude. I think I know everything about you, and then you just say these things,” Terrence says in an exhilarated rush. "Ah… What the hell, man. Teach me how to write those scripts, I’m in."
Terrence knocks Gideon’s shoulder with a fierce laugh, and nothing in the world is more natural.
-
5.
"Hey, Gideon," Terrence calls from across the room where he’s sat. "Hold up a finger?"
Nose in a book, Gideon does it without looking up.
Terrence hems. "Darn," he announces. "Might need new glasses."
Gideon looks up at that. "Hm?"
Terrence brushes his hair back and out of his eyes. "Ugh. The text on my computer’s been kind of fuzzy. I was wondering whether it was my eyes’ fault. Vision’s getting worse."
"I didn’t know that could happen."
"Me neither. Oh well — win some, lose some."
Impulsively, curiously, Gideon asks, "Without your glasses can you tell how many fingers I’m holding up?" He sets his book down and raises four fingers.
Glasses held dangling in one hand, "All I see is a fleshy blob," Terrence says flatly. "From here I couldn’t tell you apart from Carter."
"Ouch, my ego."
"You’re a real joker." Terrence squints in a kind-of-endearing way. "Is it all your fingers?"
"No, only four."
Terrence groans. "Man. You and your perfect eyesight. It’s not fairrr…"
"You win some you lose some."
Terrence flops out the hand holding his glasses. "You try them. Suffer with me."
Gideon blinks. "Ah?"
Terrence gestures towards him. "You should try them on."
Taking slow steps, Gideon crosses over to take them from Terrence’s hands. (Their fingers brush, briefly. Gideon doesn’t know why he notices.)
The rectangular frames settle a little funny when he sets them on his face, he adjusts them a few times before they sit.
When Gideon looks through the glass, immediately his eyes start watering. Everything is horribly bright and blurry, all overexposed and too close to his face, and he has to force his eyes shut for a second to concentrate on forming a thought. He’s standing still now but if he were to walk he’d be concerned for his balance.
"You can see like this?" He breathes out.
Terrence squawks. "Well, I need glasses to see." It’s very difficult to tell but it looks like he might throw up an arm in protest.
Hm. So this is the world through Terrence’s eyes, Gideon muses. The square glasses shape his perception of the world — and here Gideon is, for a moment sharing that view. It’s…a surprisingly intimate thought.
"Hey, Gideon. How many fingers?"
Gideon makes a face. "No idea. This is giving me a headache."
He can’t see clearly, but he imagines Terrence grinning.
"Guess anyways."
Exasperated, "Two?"
There comes a whistling sound. "You got it. How’d you get it? Maybe you do need glasses."
A hunch. Gideon debates telling him it’s because he can so easily picture Terrence dangling a casual peace sign, but it might make him self-conscious enough to stop. "No way."
"They look nice on you though. I think." A rustling sound and he can feel Terrence’s warm face a few inches away from his as he squints his eyes. "Yeah, glasses suit you."
Gideon nearly trips over himself to return some distance between the two of them. "I’m good, thank you." He’s sure his face is a red resembling his copper hair. Slipping off Terrence’s glasses, blessedly, the world returns to normal. Gideon moves to return them to Terrence’s hand.
Instead of grabbing on to them, Terrence says, "Put them on for me?"
"Do it yourself."
Terrence groans. "C’monn." He adjusts a little and sticks his face out so it’s easier to reach.
Gideon scoffs. "I’ll poke you."
"I trust you, you know that," Terrence says easily. He shrugs about it.
Something inside Gideon goes light and floaty at the declaration. He will never understood Terrence’s willingness, his courage, to be so open with his words. Gideon doesn’t have that same ability. Still, the words give him an impulse to express the same sentiment. "Close your eyes. I’m putting them on you."
Terrence looks a bit surprised that Gideon goes with it, then does as told.
They are around the same height, but with Terrence sitting and Gideon standing he’s able to put them on at a good angle. As he’s lowering them onto Terrence’s face he is struck with the realization that Terrence’s eyelashes are actually quite long.
Between Terrence’s glasses and never really having his face this close before he hasn’t noticed, but his friend has long, full eyelashes that make him think of ink brush marks. Gideon’s hands are stuck in a hover as he stares at the rows of them.
Terrence’s eyes, still closed under his eyelids, move back and forth, sending his eyelashes fluttering. Gideon keeps watching, fascinated.
And one dark eye stares back at him.
Gideon’s heart jumps. There is something soulful there, in the wonderful dark of Terrence’s eye as it flits open.
"Close your eyes," Gideon scolds, but his chest is racing. "I really will poke your eye out."
"Oops." Terrence shuts his eye again.
With a slight shake to his hands, he sets the glasses back on their owner’s face. Gideon does end up poking Terrence—in the cheek, not the eye. The other boy wrinkles his nose but doesn’t flinch.
"There."
Terrence touches the corner of his glasses, blinking up at him with a slow smile. "Hey, you got it."
Faced with that smile, Gideon wonders if it is still possible to catch yourself when you are already falling in love.