‘I can’t believe people are going with it,’ Noah said as they watched one Mari dance through someone’s hallway before running back out into the street.
‘People get on board with it,’ Quinn said.
‘And people are singing in Welsh,’ Noah said.
‘That’s right! Now, come on. Sing with me.’
It was apparent that Noah didn’t speak Welsh, let alone sing it, but he tried. Quinn helped guide him, tracing his finger across the lyric page that they shared. Their hands were close, and Quinn wanted to let his little finger brush Noah’s, but he couldn’t.
As they went to the next street, Blair and Ivy joined the group, giving a wave to Quinn. He smiled at them, wondering if they would join them. But as Blair placed an arm over Ivy’s shoulders, he thought they would rather have their own time together.
Quinn caught Noah’s eye, and he smiled. Noah smiled too, but he looked a little too long at Quinn. Faltering, Quinn sang the wrong words, throwing Noah off.
‘You did that!’ Noah said.
‘I’m sorry. You have a lovely voice, too.’
It wasn’t a lie. Despite Noah leaving Hay all these years ago, he had kept that Welsh accent twang, and it was even more apparent in his singing voice, which kept the pitch and its soothing tone.
‘Oh, stop it,’ Noah said. ‘If I could sing, I wouldn’t be a writer.’
‘What would you be?’
‘A popstar.’
A nearby Mari, hearing this, turned to face them with those wild eyes, and snapped her jaws together. Noah, now getting used to the tricks, sang the next Christmas carol to the Mari, making the woman guiding her laugh.
The trickster spirit of Mari rubbed off on the crowd, with people helping to play tricks on others. As they came to the Rose and Crown pub, their final destination, people took over guiding the Mari to unsuspecting customers, her boned jaw nipping at their clothes. Inside the pub, the lights dimmed, and the Welsh carols continued. The Maris each performed a dance, which was more of a sway from side to side, but the big skull glittering with tinsel made the audience laugh.
Noah bought them drinks, and after two whisky’s, they joined the crowd, dancing along with the Maris and the rest. Quinn had to admit that Noah could move. He sang along to Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’, giving a very dramatic rendition and acting out the words with one of the Maris, who somehow showed emotion with her expressionless face.
Quinn laughed each time Noah committed to the lyrics, watching him give his best Backstreet Boys impression. Then he joined in and it felt like they were on stage together. During a Taylor Swift bridge, they found themselves close to one another, so close that Quinn could do divination on the light wrinkles in Noah’s skin.
The crowd seemed to melt around them. Even Taylor’s voice faded away.
Noah seemed to X-ray him, a hunger in his eyes like a vampire seeing his next meal.
It was sexy as hell.
Quinn placed a hand on Noah’s shoulder, trying his best to muster up the energy not to move closer.
Noah’s hand found Quinn’s, looking at his fingers, that familiar expression of lost thought knitting across his brow.
What was he thinking?
Noah patted Quinn’s shoulder, the sort of pat you do when two men want to show affection without showing affection. It was the pat he’d given him before, as if establishing a brotherly bond and nothing more. Quinn felt as though it’d stung him.
‘I should leave,’ Noah said, clearing his throat.
‘Stay for one more?’ Quinn asked.
‘I told Matty I’d only be gone an hour.’
This time, the sting was more than a sore spot. He was deathly allergic and it was making it hard to breathe. ‘Better get back, then.’
He hoped Noah sensed the shift, but he seemed to be a master at controlling his emotions. Noah finished the rest of his drink and then zipped up his coat. ‘Let’s do this again.’
An antidote to his swelling stings.
