[ It kind of feels like a dream. Daniel's not even high yet, but he's all but sleepwalking, following the attractive guy with the long, pointed face and a set of curls that Daniel finds himself strangely envious of, a heat settling in his stomach that's normally reserved for drunken, heroin fueled lips against stubble or pretty women in sundresses.
He doesn't fully remember how he got here, even. Or where 'here' is. In the neighborhood, sure, definitely Haight-Ashbury, but too neat, to pristine, to kept and in such an oddly specific way. There's a prayer rug and a painting he can't tear his eyes off of for some reason, only moving from it once he's softly ushered in with the promise of drugs.
Probably, Daniel should be a bit worried, but there's a part in his mind that's started immediately gnawing on everything that's completely ignoring every single neon sign screaming 'danger' and 'bad idea.' It's not even the drugs, although that's something. It's just the vast multitudes of all of it. A feeling in his gut that's nudged him into interviewing, into journalism, into press.
'Pick your poison,' Armand says, and his voice is so soft it's hypnotizing. He glances from Armand to the tray: a kid in a candy store, but his gaze moves back to the stranger again, and again, and even as he slowly reaches for the small bag of fine powder next to the needle, pale fingers curling over the plastic as his heart races with the anticipation. He holds it in his hand for a moment, lips parted, and finally speaks. ]
What's the price?
[ Armand answers and there's something that's scratching at his brain, something he can't grasp fully, and that combined with the question itself is enough to break the temporary spell. He looks over at Armand, brow furrowed. The soft spoken tone almost seems child like. That doesn't make any sense, he's got a tray full of drugs and a gorgeous house, he's confident enough to prowl gay bars and charismatic enough to pick up guys like him, even if guys like him are desperate.
Daniel decides to keep ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, and his other hand digs into his jacket pocket to dig out his lighter. He has the strangest urge to pin the other man against the wall, suddenly. Not out of anger, but something else. Desperation. Lust.
Why?
Daniel clears his throat. Decides yeah, he'll answer, but he's not going to look Armand in the eye while he does it. This shit's private, and he's not an idiot: it's shameful. Daniel's not quite rock bottom but he's pretty fucking close, so excuse him while he arranges the powder into the provided spoon without a glance back. Even if he wants to.
Why? ]
I write better. Interview better. [ That's an answer. It's not even an untrue answer. His lips press into a thin line, and he finally steals another glance at his new patron. ]
no subject
He doesn't fully remember how he got here, even. Or where 'here' is. In the neighborhood, sure, definitely Haight-Ashbury, but too neat, to pristine, to kept and in such an oddly specific way. There's a prayer rug and a painting he can't tear his eyes off of for some reason, only moving from it once he's softly ushered in with the promise of drugs.
Probably, Daniel should be a bit worried, but there's a part in his mind that's started immediately gnawing on everything that's completely ignoring every single neon sign screaming 'danger' and 'bad idea.' It's not even the drugs, although that's something. It's just the vast multitudes of all of it. A feeling in his gut that's nudged him into interviewing, into journalism, into press.
'Pick your poison,' Armand says, and his voice is so soft it's hypnotizing. He glances from Armand to the tray: a kid in a candy store, but his gaze moves back to the stranger again, and again, and even as he slowly reaches for the small bag of fine powder next to the needle, pale fingers curling over the plastic as his heart races with the anticipation. He holds it in his hand for a moment, lips parted, and finally speaks. ]
What's the price?
[ Armand answers and there's something that's scratching at his brain, something he can't grasp fully, and that combined with the question itself is enough to break the temporary spell. He looks over at Armand, brow furrowed. The soft spoken tone almost seems child like. That doesn't make any sense, he's got a tray full of drugs and a gorgeous house, he's confident enough to prowl gay bars and charismatic enough to pick up guys like him, even if guys like him are desperate.
Daniel decides to keep ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, and his other hand digs into his jacket pocket to dig out his lighter. He has the strangest urge to pin the other man against the wall, suddenly. Not out of anger, but something else. Desperation. Lust.
Why?
Daniel clears his throat. Decides yeah, he'll answer, but he's not going to look Armand in the eye while he does it. This shit's private, and he's not an idiot: it's shameful. Daniel's not quite rock bottom but he's pretty fucking close, so excuse him while he arranges the powder into the provided spoon without a glance back. Even if he wants to.
Why? ]
I write better. Interview better. [ That's an answer. It's not even an untrue answer. His lips press into a thin line, and he finally steals another glance at his new patron. ]
I'd like to interview you, if you'd let me.