The next day was the solstice and, to his surprise, Mallory found himself awake not long after seven, though the sun already hung high in the sky. Most days, he would have remained in bed for hours, resting and relaxing like one should on holidays… but today, he wanted answers. Mr Wesley had left him the previous night with many questions that ate at him, and he knew that the other man tended to rise at dawn, even in summer.
Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed and dressed, before making his way over to the old stone building that Mr Wesley called home. It was already quite bright in the little town, and most of the village seemed to be rising, though none seemed to be walking towards the Bed & Breakfast. Shrugging, Mallory continued on his way, and when he reached the door, he pushed on it and continued to walk.
It didn't open.
Confused, Mallory pushed harder, but the door remained obstinately shut. "This is odd," he said aloud, before leaning his back against the solid oak. Mr Wesley was always open at this time of day, Mallory knew that… but where was he? Sighing, Mallory decided he had no choice but to wait. Mr Wesley shouldn't be long, after all.
An hour later, as Mr Wesley made his way back to the old building from what must be the direction of the sea, Mallory was impatiently drumming his fingers on the door as he sat on the stone step. As he saw the frustrated look on his… well, he guessed, his friend's face, Mr Wesley smiled wryly. Having never seen Mallory rise this early, he had not thought to warn him of something that all the village knew.
However, he thought as Mallory began to open his mouth, perhaps his impromptu announcement last night had had more of an impact than he knew. And as Mallory drawled, "Took you long enough, Blake," he found himself remembering exactly why he had never bothered to correct the villagers' assumptions about his age.
"I mean, you're entirely too old to be wandering about in the cold air… oh, what was I saying?" Mallory continued, with a fake look of shock, "You're not old at all! Though," he added spitefully, "I suppose it's not so hard a mistake to make." An hour sitting in the cool morning air, waiting for someone, had done little to improve his mood.
Mr Wesley rolled his eyes, ignoring Mallory as he walked around to the more concealed side door. Slipping inside, he made his way to the front door to unbar it, opening the doors onto Mallory's annoyed face. "You were saying, Mallory?"
"I was saying," Mallory began, tone irritated, "That it isn't very considerate to keep secrets like that from people you consider your friends."
Mr Wesley rolled his eyes once more. They may be the same age, but sometimes Mallory seemed so much younger than him. But then again, he reflected, he wouldn't have reacted very well to discovering that a friend was hiding things from him… he knew this from experience.
Sighing, he offered, "Look, I'm sorry Mallory. But it's not like I go around telling people this information very often. I'm considered to be middle-aged among the village, and am perfectly content to remain that way. Now, can we continue this inside? The villagers may wait til ten on Litha, but I still have to begin the baking." That said, he turned and made his way towards the kitchen and dragged out his ingredients, quickly getting to work, while Mallory stood and watched.
"Litha?" the blonde asked curiously. "I don't hear many m-," he stumbled over his words for a second, before continuing, "men talk about that. Not in this sort of town, anyway."
"Well," Mr Wesley replied, most of his concentration on the danishes he was filling, glad for his foresight in preparing the pastry the previous night, "I don't talk about that to many people. Even those who know what it is – as you said, not very common in this sort of town."
"Yes…" Mallory replied, curious as to why such a 'common' person would be involved in anything so pagan. "Litha is an old family tradition, though we tend to hold bonfires in the evening… but you're just trying to distract me."
"I might be," Mr Wesley replied half-heartedly, as he put the first tray of pastries into the oven, moving on to the next batch. Slightly annoyed, he added, "What is it you want me to say, Mallory? I already apologised for keeping the truth from you - which, might I add, I would rather you kept from the rest of the town – but it's not like I make a habit of telling this sort of thing to strangers."
"I want…" Mallory hesitated as he thought, before shrugging and saying, "I don't know what I want. I guess I just don't understand why anyone would want to pretend to be OLDER than they are!"
"Not all of us are as vain as you," Mr Wesley muttered quietly, before saying more loudly, "It's the best way to h… to escape notice. People would raise eyebrows at a thirty year old doing the things I do, but by pretending to be the age they expect me, they have no problems with what I do. That makes my life a lot simpler."
"Simpler, yes… but don't you ever long for excitement?"
"No," Mr Wesley replied firmly. "I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime." Determined to finish the conversation there, he walked away to quickly look over the dining area, before inviting in the gentlemen standing outside the door. They knew better than to walk in while he was baking; for all that Mr Wesley had never yelled at anyone that they could see, it tended to distract and disturb him, and they preferred to be courteous. And Mr Wesley had no problems with that.
Mallory was about to chase after Mr Wesley, unwilling to let the conversation die, but one of the villagers grabbed his arm to hold him back. "Let him be, kid, he has enough work without you yammering at him, and he's a chap who needs his privacy."
Sighing, Mallory glared half-heartedly at the man, before admitting inwardly that he was right. For all his curiosity, pestering Mr Wes… Blake's now would only lead to arguments, which wasn't what Mallory wanted at all. After all, if he alienated Mr W- who would he have to talk to? Inwardly, he laughed at his inability to think of the other man by his first name – for all that they were friends of a sort, Mr… Blake seemed so much older than him. It was strange, and somewhat sad.
What was it that had happened to this strangely quiet man, who seemed so determined to be ordinary, but didn't care about money and followed pagan rituals and seemed to be hiding from the world. What could make a man so prematurely old? Silently, Mallory vowed to break down Blake's walls, and find out everything he could about this fascinating muggle he called friend.
He began that morning, subtly involving himself in the conversations of the other villagers until he could feel free to ask questions. But no matter who he asked, the answer was always the same: Mr Wesley arrived nigh on ten years ago, looking not much younger than he did now, and set up his home. He never had any visitors or mail, and the only thing they knew about his past was that it included a young redhead, whom most of the villagers thought was once his love, though some suggested she might be a sister or a very close friend.
"He paints, y'see, and he mostly paints her. Not that he's let many of us into his workroom, and even then he only shows us a few isolated paintings," one older lady said, who had been privileged once to enter the study as he searched for some parchment to lend her daughter. "He never talks about her, though."
"He paints, does he?" Mallory muttered to himself. Ten years ago, he would not have thought twice about sneaking into the other man's study – it's not like any of his locks could withstand his entry, after all – but now he felt a strange sense of guilt at the thought. Maybe Mr Wesley would let him in one day… for the meantime, he'd just have to pester the other man until he gave in.
Mallory was always very good at that.