What The House Forgot

Your Destiny, Despite the Distance

Victor didn't respond before the plane got in the air, and so John's arrival in England may very well be a surprise for him. John wasn't able to gauge his friend's reaction before he turned off his cellular data, and thus was not able to get any last minute refusals. He denied Victor the opportunity to protest, one last time, in case this trip was not as welcomed as he once imagined. This was paranoia speaking, not exactly John Watson. This was the little voice in the back of his head, whispering that Victor didn't want him, that Victor had out grown him, that John was the only one suffering the separation. It was ridiculous, of course, as the two had spent almost the whole week squealing like school girls on their respective phone lines, speaking of the plans they were going to make and the adventures they were going to have. Victor wanted him in England. The delay in response was just one little factor that would weigh upon John's mind for the whole seven hour plane ride.
John was able to score the window seat after explaining to his neighbor that he had never been on a plane before. It was a bit embarrassing, then, when he couldn't stand to keep the window shade open. He couldn't stand to look out the window and see something as familiar as clouds, just in the wrong orientation to himself. John was perfectly comfortable staring at the clouds from below, laying on the soccer field after a hard practice and gazing into the sky at the puffy cumulus clouds, admiring their shape and vibrancy. He wasn't too fond of looking down upon them, seeing them so solid and satisfying, though knowing that the plane could pass straight through if something went wrong, collapsing them into a free fall that would be cushioned by nothing but the stark, distant Atlantic Ocean. They were far from land now, far from anyone's help. John shut the window, and tried to watch anything on the television screen. Tried to distract himself from what was going on outside in favor of outdated cartoons.
Had Victor felt the same? When he looked out of the window of the plane, also a first time flyer, was he worried about the decent? Or would he have preferred it, knowing that a crash might be enough to send his family scrambling back to the familiar American coast, desperate for the lives they were forced to give up? Might it have been an omen if Victor didn't make it across? Might it be even more of an omen if John ended up submerged? His stomach grumbled at the thought, and for a moment John relished in the darkness behind his eyelids. He wished that he had taken up the stewardess's offer on a ginger ale, realizing that it wasn't just turbulence that could make his breakfast resurface. Was he supposed to be going in this direction? Was he supposed to be following Victor on a path that could lead nowhere? John was staking so much in this journey, he was relying on its life changing properties. Something about England felt so appropriate...would John be prepared for disappointment? Was he prepared even for reality? England might not be the utopia he was hoping for. Victor may have already moved on. John stiffened, rearranging himself in his seat so that his seatbelt tugged aggressively on his waist. He told himself to stop thinking so seriously. He told himself to relax. A hard thing to do when your thoughts, usually in the clouds, were now much higher. From this elevation his thoughts were somewhere in the atmosphere. 

Whether it be luck or destiny, the plane touched down in England. John only felt safe enough to open the window after the wheels were rolling on the runway, and when he gazed outside it looked as if nothing had changed. It looked as if someone had pulled a massive prank, piloting the ship three hours across the Atlantic only to turn around the double the trip back home. England's airport, by all accounts, looked quite like America's. John had expected much more ivy. Nevertheless, something was keeping him much more grounded. Even though he sat some fifty feet above the ground he already felt connected to the land, as if what was hiding under this cement had been sacred to him in another life. It was a reassuring feeling, to say the least.
Upon going through customs and retrieving his luggage, John's energy was beginning to slacken. The plane food was sitting uncomfortably in his stomach, and his gaunt reflection in the bathroom mirror made it only more obvious that he was looking about as lifeless as one of the terminal chairs. Grey, drawn, and strangely puffy. John patted some water upon his face from the sinks, trying to smooth back his hair to ensure the consequences of intercontinental flight were not so obvious in his style. He knew he would be seeing Victor soon, but more importantly he might be seeing the friends. Victor had seen him at his worst; in fact he was probably the only one to have suffered such a fate. But these new friends, well certainly they would have to be introduced to the best John possible. He couldn't be looking like he had just resurfaced from the dead.
John could already tell were the welcoming processions were, judging purely by the sudden commotion that had stirred in the hallway before him. Across a metal gate, a spinning one which allowed only one way access, was a crowd of family and friends waiting to welcome their friends from their flights. In this case there were mostly Americans descending the walkway, though there were a handful of English natives who must have been returning from their own vacation, welcomed with a hug and a familiar accented greeting. John shuffled along, hoping he would not be met with such strained octaves. How long before Victor developed an accent? How long before he opted out of seasoning on his food?
At first John wondered if he was in the wrong spot. Even worse, he wondered if Victor had forgotten to retrieve him, or was otherwise intentionally sabotaging his arrival. The crowd was thick, and as John passed through the gates (awkwardly, due to the sheer size of his luggage) he began to wonder what to do next. He had not asked for an address, he couldn't just tell a cabbie where he needed to be. Would he have to wait here, calling Victor until he showed up? Or would John be destined to turn around immediately, realizing that he was being forced to retreat back to America sooner than expected? England was not inhabitable without the help of a single boy. A single boy who may very well be absent.
"Well it's good to see you haven't worked on your hearing in the past four months!" John was struck from behind, something that could have been a deadly blow had it been intended with any force. Instead he was merely slapped alongside the back of his head, a limp pair of fingers jolting his head along his neck enough to snap him back into the present. Thankfully, all his pessimism disappeared with the arrival of that familiar voice. That welcomed voice, heard only through the phone for what seemed to be eons of geological time.
John turned, leaving his luggage behind so as to better allow himself to pivot. Still in the long and crowded aisle of travelers, a stream of exhausted tourists and natives who just wanted to keep moving, John found his feet stuck. He didn't intend on leaving just yet, not until he made sure that his best friend really was in front of him. Not before he was sure that Victor Trevor stood before him, with that cocked smile and those gleaming eyes. Not before he clarified that the shirt Victor was wearing was indeed the same shirt he wore every Monday without fail. Familiar fabrics on a familiar boy, just seven hours and one ocean apart from where they usually stood.
John wasn't ashamed to throw himself on Victor, not even when their last hug had been the most awkward affair he had ever forced himself into. It was an emotional response that seemed to be hardwired into his brain, somehow despite all the stereotypes of masculinity it was impossible to keep himself apart from the boy he had grown to miss for four straight months. It was impossible not to test his limits, test his theories, and remind himself exactly how Victor Trevor felt when crushed between his arms.
"You're alive!" was John's only response, nearly forcing Victor's spine to pop out of the back of his chest with the pressure built up in his embrace. Victor hugged back, laughing all the while, squirming to attempt a breath or two before he laughed himself into asphyxiation. For a moment neither seemed to care that they were causing a scene. Neither cared that they were in the middle of a line of foot traffic, barricading the middle of the hall with their reunion. John was relieved to feel that Victor felt exactly the same, save for perhaps a heartiness that could only be gained from eating meat pies and potatoes. He felt heavier, denser, though not with an accumulation of fat. Perhaps a density added into his bones, into his organs, onto his soul. He was still the spindly twig that wore the same clothes since seventh grade. He could still fit between cars parked together, or slide under fences that no one allowed him to pass through. Though it felt as if it would finally take more than a gust of wind to knock him down. It felt as if he would not shatter when dropped.
"Course I'm alive. What did you think; Jack the Ripper would get me?" Victor scoffed, finally releasing himself from John's grip enough to catch his breath. His face had flushed, and for a moment the boy bent over upon his knee to allow himself the time to recover. His brown hair drooped across from its styled wave, moving as a solid mass to follow gravity along his forehead before Victor finally resurfaced and pushed it back into his designated position.
"I thought they'd hang you for blasphemy and grind your bones into powder," John admitted with a chuckle.
"Not me, but I've seen some others suffer that fate. I can't wait to show you the witch burnings, and the beheadings," Victor shot back. He moved to snatch a piece of John's luggage, helping him perhaps with the intent of moving their reunion from the crowded terminal into a more private section of the airport. John took the hint, stringing his carry-on across his shoulders and hoisting his suitcase for the rest of the walk.
"Before that, we have to meet the Queen!" John protested.
"Yes of course. I'll introduce you to John Lennon, too," Victor sneered.
"Practicing necromancy, I see?"
"It's one of our core classes," Victor agreed. John chuckled, looping his pinky into his coat pocket and dropping his eyes to the floor. He couldn't stop smiling. It felt like an infectious disease, the way his cheeks continued to upturn, it felt as if he might strain the muscles in his face as they tried to display the joy he felt for a prolonged period of time. Was he doomed to grin for the entire summer? Was hearing the octaves of Victor's voice, so familiar and thankfully still so American, enough to cure the world's ills? Was simply walking in that familiar stride, the quickened pace of John's short legs to the gait of Victor's long ones, enough to snap him out of the sullen four months of separation anxiety?
"This is amazing," John admitted as they stepped outside, walking through the massive parking lots in an attempt to find Victor's parked car.
"England?" Victor presumed, finding that comment to be open ended. John hummed in agreement, staring at the sky above and trying to see some irregularity, something he didn't recognize right away. He felt as if the world was supposed to look different from this angle. If they were really on a globe then the universe was supposed to look strange. The stars would be different, and the clouds ought to be in different formations. Though the sky looked just the same as America. In fact, this all looked just the same. Ugly industrialism seemed to be universal, and the color of concrete never got more interesting as you crossed oceans and state lines.
The car ride back was dedicated entirely to catching up. It was surprising how little John could recall from his time in America, how all of those four months seemed to be dedicated to absolutely nothing. He didn't go anywhere these days, he didn't hang out with friends like he used to. Occasionally he'd go to a baseball game, though only the ones they were expected to lose, and pretend to cheer in the stands all the while he grew more and more excited as the score began to widen. He spoke of classes and the college search, though he wasn't yet committing himself to a particular institution, not even to a particular country. Perhaps England would be the place to go; perhaps they could both attend the university that sat within Victor's very town?
Victor, on the other hand, had many stories to tell. So many stories that John found he was doing more listening than speaking, a stark contrast to the way their American life had gone. As Victor drove he spoke of his adventures with his new friends, adventures that sounded so close to illegal activity that it was surprising Victor was not yet in some sort of institution for troubled teens. The friends he had fallen in with seemed to be good kids all around, though Victor spoke of trespassing, and drinking, and breaking and entering, all sorts of things that he would have shied away from in America. Was he really so different these days? Did Victor leave his innocence in America?
"So Rosie is the one with my last name, right?" John clarified, taking a break from staring glassy eyed out the window to catch Victor's nodding head. It was getting rather late, and the sun was beaming in a very aggressive angle, setting along the flat countryside to better shine through the windshield. Victor dropped down the sun visor, but John kept his head tilted enough to shield himself from the most direct rays.
"Ya, she's my neighbor. Sherlock lives a little ways down the street in the other direction, but he has a bike," Victor agreed. John nodded, noticing with some satisfaction that way Victor's voice dropped. The name seemed to come with many connotations.
"What's Sherlock like? You've mentioned him quite a lot," John wondered, trying to keep his voice down to a conversational level. If Victor felt like he was being interrogated that would be the end of the conversation, though John did not intend to shut him down so quickly. Victor shrugged very animatedly, bringing his shoulders to his ears and slouching a bit more over the steering wheel. His face might have flushed, but it might have also caught some of the deep hues of the sunset.
"Oh you know, he's just a kid. He's very smart, and very funny. He's in some of my classes; in fact he moved seats to sit next to me! He was never great friends with Rosie until I came along, but now the three of us are inseparable," Victor admitted, his voice growing more and more excited as he continued to describe his new friend. New obsession, perhaps.
"That's good to hear. Good to hear that some of these people are tolerable," John chuckled.
"They're actually much nicer than Americans. I mean of course we've got the bullies, they're much more physical over here, but everyone is a lot less intense. They're less hysterical," Victor offered, trying to choose his words carefully but still frowning, as if his message didn't quite get across.
"Do you miss America?" John wondered. Victor sighed, working his fingers across the leather of the steering wheel to give himself something to do in the thought process. John hadn't expected an answer right away, though he almost wished the deliberation wouldn't have been so long.
"I don't think so. Not anymore. Especially not when you're here," Victor decided at last. "England seems to be where I belong. I can't explain it but...but I feel like this was all meant to be."
"Like you're playing out your destiny?" John presumed, having felt a similar sentiment when he began his trip across the ocean.

"That makes it sound awfully cheesy," Victor pointed out. John shrugged, though he watched his friend nod in his peripheral vision. Victor agreed, this was indeed their destiny.  

Upon arrival at the Trevor house, John felt as if he was being welcomed by an extension of his own family. Although the Trevor parents had never officially been deemed his relatives, he found almost more comfort when greeting them as he found with his own parents, and was welcomed with powerful hugs and handshakes all around. As soon as John walked in the front door of the unassuming English home he found that the doorways were draped in paper streamers, with balloons dotted around the floor in celebration. If he wasn't so tired he might have cried.
The Trevor parents had put together what they called a traditional English dinner, though it would seem as if Americans weren't so able to make something to that level quite yet. They had attempted some meat pies, though the insides were particularly goopy and the crust of the little pies needed some serious work. It was a strange combination of textures, coupled with hardly any flavor, to which all four at the table decided that might just put down their forks and resort to the frozen pizza in the fridge. The whole while John had that ridiculous smile, the smile he simply couldn't wipe off no matter how hard he tried. He was happy, happy in the purest form, for the first time since Victor had turned away. Happy for the first time in months.
Over dinner the four talked mostly about differences. They talked of the differences in the jobs, the schools, the community, the houses, the culture in itself. They spoke of vacation spots and of foods, of wages and standardized tests. Victor talked for a while about how he finally found a sport he hated more than baseball (cricket) and insisted that the cricketing boys were the most obnoxious rich kids he had ever been forced to deal with. White polo shirts seemed to be more obnoxious than the baseball team's chewing tobacco, though the boy's personalities seemed perfectly volatile. Victor assured John that he had come out with perfect scores on all of his tests, and that if he hadn't moved in so late he might be contending for the top spot in the class.
It was strange to hear Victor speaking of England as if it was his home. Yes, four months could do a lot of damage to one's perception, though if John wasn't mistaken, the boy seemed to talk about England very long term. He seemed to have been here forever, and seemed to plan on staying for just as long. While he hadn't adopted an accent Victor had begun throwing in words that were unrecognizable, words that seemed to reflect the last four month of his life more vividly than the rest of his seventeen year upbringing. He was being adopted into the culture so quickly that it seemed to be his brain's initial setting, as if he had always wished to fall into line with a people who made more sense to him than Americans.
Perhaps John mourned the loss of his friend. Perhaps he saw in Victor more changes than recognizable traits. It was yet to be determined if this was a good or a bad thing.  

That night the boys fell asleep unusually early. While they had both intended on staying up until the break of dawn, pulling their eyes open with their fingers in an attempt to survive the loading screen of Call of Duty, they had instead fallen asleep on the carpet of Victor's bedroom. John had imagined that this entire summer would be put together like their middle school sleepovers, in which they could waste away the entire night and wade through the morning with that hangover of sleep deprivation, that groggy regret when the morning sun stung their eyes.
In direct contrast, John never even made it to his own room. He lay on his back on the plush carpet, illuminated only by the menu of the PlayStation, a soft light playing over the ceiling as he stared absentmindedly, halfway through his eyelids and halfway towards the dancing blue hue. With a pillow under his head, John sat in silence. He knew Victor was asleep next to him, having curled up around ten o'clock, unable to even make it into his bed. Victor had pulled a blanket over top of himself, though the cuffs of his shirt were still visible where his hand clutched onto the frayed ends of fabric. A blanket that John recognized, a blanket that had been offered to him before. An old blanket, on a new carpet, in a new country. Wrapped in a new boy. He sighed, feeling bad for taking this opportunity to study his friend. Though it felt as if it was his right to observe, making up for lost time.
John fell asleep that night in a position that would have got him caught. Propped up on his elbow, he had collapsed onto the floor with his arm squashed underneath, his head tilted towards Victor. It could be easily deduced that he had lost the battle against dreams while staring in his friend's direction. If Victor noticed this when he woke, it was never mentioned. Perhaps because he had also done his fair share of studying long after John had fallen asleep. It felt necessary for both boys to reintroduce themselves to their friends, to make sure they still remembered what their faces looked like when they weren't created on a screen of pixels.