[ There's a presence in this guy. That's the only word Daniel has for it, which irritates him slightly--he's a journalist and adjectives are his bread and butter--but he doesn't think much of it at first. He realizes he got caught staring for too long and simply turns his attention to the sickly sweet drink in front of him, fingers lightly brushing the cold glass and the messenger bag he'd unceremoniously plopped in front of him.
The issue is that the guy's already seemed to have made up his mind. Slim, graceful, ethereal even in the neon glow of a too crowded gay bar. The guy calmly takes a seat next to him and Daniel barely has time to register anything--his brows lift and his lips part to say something--when the stranger speaks.
'You're back' is a frightening phrase but within the realm of possibility, given the bender he'd been on lately. He does like that tone despite how oddly clinical it is, how the hypnotic quality of that perfect received pronunciation cuts through the jukebox blasting T. Rex. Daniel's first thought is narc. That's got to be it: the immediate leap, as bone deep accurate as it is, the strange, crisp posture. Elegant. Familiar. Unnatural.
It's the rest of what the stranger says that causes his blood to run cold. Daniel exhales through his nose, mouth pulling up into a wry, dry smirk out of reflexive habit. It's close. Personal. Creepy as hell, cutting a little too close. An observation from a complete stranger.
The guy's beautiful. Daniel never really thinks guys are beautiful, but this one is. And close. ]
I'm sorry-- [ it's a tone that says he's not sorry at all, coming close to deadpan. Another reflexive habit. ] --Have we met?
[ By and large, Daniel's body language remains the same, if a little defensive: back a little straighter, not leaning in as his mind tries to cycle through hazy, foggy memories. Someone's apartment--not really any furniture, but a six pack of beer and...what? Something. Nothing. An alley. ]
no subject
The issue is that the guy's already seemed to have made up his mind. Slim, graceful, ethereal even in the neon glow of a too crowded gay bar. The guy calmly takes a seat next to him and Daniel barely has time to register anything--his brows lift and his lips part to say something--when the stranger speaks.
'You're back' is a frightening phrase but within the realm of possibility, given the bender he'd been on lately. He does like that tone despite how oddly clinical it is, how the hypnotic quality of that perfect received pronunciation cuts through the jukebox blasting T. Rex. Daniel's first thought is narc. That's got to be it: the immediate leap, as bone deep accurate as it is, the strange, crisp posture. Elegant. Familiar. Unnatural.
It's the rest of what the stranger says that causes his blood to run cold. Daniel exhales through his nose, mouth pulling up into a wry, dry smirk out of reflexive habit. It's close. Personal. Creepy as hell, cutting a little too close. An observation from a complete stranger.
The guy's beautiful. Daniel never really thinks guys are beautiful, but this one is. And close. ]
I'm sorry-- [ it's a tone that says he's not sorry at all, coming close to deadpan. Another reflexive habit. ] --Have we met?
[ By and large, Daniel's body language remains the same, if a little defensive: back a little straighter, not leaning in as his mind tries to cycle through hazy, foggy memories. Someone's apartment--not really any furniture, but a six pack of beer and...what? Something. Nothing. An alley. ]