(no subject)

[almost-arabian.livejournal.com]

((OOM: Things improve.))

There is a rather stunned looking man standing in the doorway of Milliways. He hasn't seen the place for almost a year and a half and it's ... exactly as he remembered it to be, even if he spent quite a bit of time insisting to himself that it could have been some elaborate hallucination.

At any rate, more about him. His hair is trimmed, though somewhat touseled, and he appears to be wearing a khaki uniform and heavy overcoat of the same colour. The sleeves are rolled up and he is dirty.

Dusty is perhaps a more accurate term. The thick goggles are a hint at what he's just come from - his motor bike is parked just outside in the background.

He is blinking. "Well, this certainly isn't the motor shop."

It's hard to tell if he's really bothered by this. The grin on his face suggests that it is in fact a smaller blessing than a curse.

Comments

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"...And slender hips, and soft mouths." The edge of his lip curls over his gums, teeth bright white, are bared for a mocking flash. "For a second, Mr. Lawrence, you looked like you were missing something."

[almost-arabian.livejournal.com]

"I am so terrible with remembering to forget, sometimes."

He licks his lips. "And those, yes." No, he's not scowling at Patrick. Of course not.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Forgetting what, Mr. Lawrence?"

(flick-click, flickclick)

He found it so easy to speak in a voice that dripped with emotion, with sincerity.

"Savoring the desperation of a memory. How pleasant it is to lie in a pile of sheets and blankets, stretching luxuriously and the admiring the way tendons and arteries writhed in his wrists, or the way his legs twist--twined in cotton--assume this or that angle."

He rolls his shoulders back, sliding out of his chair, pushing his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose with a push of his thumb. The lighter is palmed, pocketed.

[almost-arabian.livejournal.com]

"Many things, Mr. Bateman."

Repeating their names over and over is beginning to become trivial, but he'll do it as long as Patrick does it. He's stubborn like that.

His fingers curl against the tabletop, white knuckled against the top. He swallows thickly and then looks to Patrick, gaze hard. "Far too warm for cotton."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Cotton is much softer on a bare back. Sand can scratch skin raw."

He smiles, a disturbingly boyish expression because his eyes are hidden. What if the expression brightened those eyes, all widened pupil, what if? He shrugs his shoulders, an unruffled, unbothered gesture of languid limbs.

"Rock 'n' roll," Patrick says, and he leaves.

[almost-arabian.livejournal.com]

Things never get easier.

He follows Patrick with his eyes until he's sure the man is gone, then orders a drink from the bar.