Work Text:
King’s eyes had been sliding to the window all through dinner, even as he chatted dutifully with the matron beside him: partly boredom, partly longing, as the snow drifted by, and Bertie’s father’s laugh boomed from the other end of the long table. The minutes had crawled by to midnight, to champagne and toasts and cars before the snow grew too deep; and Bertie had almost wished they had stayed at school for the vac.
“Well - happy new year, then,” said King as they trudged up the stairs, another of his careful politenesses: and Bertie made a decision.
“Go and change,” he said. “Go out the side door, it won’t be locked yet. I’ll meet you outside.”
King’s eyes kindled. “What are you - “
“Starting the new year as I mean to go on,” Bertie hissed.
King was waiting for him in the snow-bright ghost of the rose garden, and looked blankly at first at the best silver tea tray, tucked under Bertie’s arm.
“Best I could do for a sledge,” Bertie panted. “I thought we could take it up the hill behind the orchard.”
“There’ll be an awful row,” said King. Not an argument: only an observation; and his eyes were bright.
“There always is, one way or another,” said Bertie. “At least this way it’ll be worth it.”
They didn’t go to bed until gone three, soaked and exhausted and delirious with speed and laughter; and on the first day of the new year there was an awful row, and a beating he was too old for.
And it was worth it, all the same.