he is three parts intellect, two parts tearful history he'd rather leave behind, and all proper english gentleman. he is untidy offices and disorganised bookshelves, an all-consuming whirlwind in his personal space, leaving dusty bones and pottery and puzzles in his wake. he is the polite turning-down of flirty pretty young things and fussy not-so-young ones, awestruck boys, jealous men.
he is everything his mother hoped he would grow up to be.
he is little unmapped villages as much as he is sprawling london, curio shops and sunlit cafés with unusual specials, residents absorbed in their small world, bearing more quirks than can be counted. he is adventures, flights of fancy that aren't flights so much as turbulent journeys fraught with riddles and riddled with danger. he is the answer to every question every average mind could hope to ask, and the challenge to ploys of minds more suited above that; he is respected in one way or another—as an enemy or as a friend.
he is a steaming cup of fresh earl grey in the morning, the sort that fogs up window panes, and he is the aftertaste, lingering, never quite forgotten no matter how much he may try to be.
he is the early-morning footsteps of every wide-eyed wanderer, the marvel and the wonder of every beautiful little thing in the vast, breathtaking universe.
he is the old friend that one savours like a particularly good brew, seeing him only once in a while, for fear he will somehow become less of a well-read, well-bred, charming, understanding wit if used up all at once. (some folks who have boldly taken the risk will be delighted to expound: this will never happen.) he is the new friend that wells one up with confidence and assurance, the sort to bake biscuits for, send bouquets to, for no other reason than that he is lovely.he is a refined sense of humour and a kindness of such depth that one suspects his life has either been very blissful, or very sad.
he is a lost love. he is a dead best friend. he is turmoil that he has made peace with, except for sometimes, when he stares out train windows and watches the world pass him by: then, he must remind himself that crying is for particularly small children. he is dutiful assistance. he is uncondescending leadership. he is everything to a little boy who wants to be like him.
he is the desperate, silent burden of being perfect, when really he isn't, because no one else has the strength to be.