[ he feels uneasy about this already, an itching in his skull that replaces the need for heroin. Something's off.
Daniel doesn't like missing things. He hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates having it lorded over him, and this is weirdly both. This feels like an odd chat, a purposeful gambit that Daniel's too young and too inexperienced to know about. Probably, this is bad. He's getting the sense he should run. Split, even. A flash of a not-really-polite smile and a grab of his things and good bye. Even if it wasn't unsettling, this beautiful stranger that's just sat down is implying not only that they've met, but that he knows Daniel's a junkie. The problem is that Daniel can't find it in himself move away and excuse himself. Not when there's something there, something off, something big.
(Later, when he's old and experienced, he'll recognize the gut instinct for what makes him a great writer. He's not ignoring that there's danger or a bad vibe, he just doesn't care: not when there's a thread that needs to be pulled at, not when there's a puzzle piece missing. He's a dog chasing cars.)
His finger taps the counter but he tries his best to keep his neutral, unimpressed face in place. Daniel wonders why he has the urge to tell the guy he's the most handsome person in this bar. He wonders why it's so easy to picture himself on his knees around the other. He never thinks about this sort of stuff, and yet here he is, subconsciously leaning towards the stranger with the lilting words. ]
I'd remember someone like you. [ Daniel's voice is oddly neutral, though his brows are knit. Everything's hazy, it's hard to pick through the heroin addled memories. He cants his head to the side, gaze sliding along the stranger's jaw. He's intrigued. ]
no subject
Daniel doesn't like missing things. He hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates having it lorded over him, and this is weirdly both. This feels like an odd chat, a purposeful gambit that Daniel's too young and too inexperienced to know about. Probably, this is bad. He's getting the sense he should run. Split, even. A flash of a not-really-polite smile and a grab of his things and good bye. Even if it wasn't unsettling, this beautiful stranger that's just sat down is implying not only that they've met, but that he knows Daniel's a junkie. The problem is that Daniel can't find it in himself move away and excuse himself. Not when there's something there, something off, something big.
(Later, when he's old and experienced, he'll recognize the gut instinct for what makes him a great writer. He's not ignoring that there's danger or a bad vibe, he just doesn't care: not when there's a thread that needs to be pulled at, not when there's a puzzle piece missing. He's a dog chasing cars.)
His finger taps the counter but he tries his best to keep his neutral, unimpressed face in place. Daniel wonders why he has the urge to tell the guy he's the most handsome person in this bar. He wonders why it's so easy to picture himself on his knees around the other. He never thinks about this sort of stuff, and yet here he is, subconsciously leaning towards the stranger with the lilting words. ]
I'd remember someone like you. [ Daniel's voice is oddly neutral, though his brows are knit. Everything's hazy, it's hard to pick through the heroin addled memories. He cants his head to the side, gaze sliding along the stranger's jaw. He's intrigued. ]
How do you know what it is I'm looking for?