milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

lethe,
santino

(no subject)

[OOM: Artist's block]

Santino opened the door to the bar, this time without the pleasant automobile awaiting him at the curb visible behind him. Dressed somewhat in his usual thoroughfare- black suede pants, polished black shoes. Crisp collard shirt, top two buttons undone. For once, sans his iconic leather jacket or any of it's deritives. Hair slightly longer than usual, though much shorter than it previously had been. A slightly different style, tonight.

Santino ordered himself a red wine and several glasses, somehow managing to balance these on the journey to his selected table. Out in the open, highly visible and with more than one empty chair welcome to be filled.

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"I don't care even if I spoil you rotten."

"I do not think you would like me as much if I was rotten."

The smile tugs up on one side.

"I would always like you, even if you be dirty, smelly and rotten."

She giggles - bright and chiming - smile wide and grateful.

Arms quickly, tightly, around his neck and she feels like joy, soft and easy affection.

"Thank you," whisper-soft against his neck.

"Thank you." Ever the witty one.

She blinks for a second in surprise, looking down at herself - she pulls back and wrinkles her nose at him.

"I - you - Oh!"

Her cheeks are bright once more, face shadowed by long curls.

"Shh, please, I am only playing with you." Santino replied well-naturedly, one arm moving around Lethe's hips, then other's hand brushing curls from her face.

"I know," she leans their foreheads together for a moment and crosses her eyes before giggling and settling back into his lap.

He suddenly leant forwards, pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

"I win."

She blinks - slowly, thoughtfully - fingers against her lips and eyes wide.

"I - I suppose you do."

Too much - too fast. Wine that tasted like Lethe-water.

"Not always, though. My luck tends towards the other end."

"Why so?"

Her eyes narrow - protective and concerned.

"It's the way things are. I am not one to complain and it truly is not so bad."

She nods, accepting.

"I did not ask if you were well," she murmurs lightly, questioning.

"Oh, I am quite well. I have not suffered lately, but I find in retrospect certain times are just that little bit downhill."

"You saw my paintings?"

She chews her lower lip in contemplation.

"A little," she smiles slightly, cheeks pink. "Probably when I was spinning - there were a lot of things."

"They're mostly unfinished. I am trying to finish one and it is naturally a little frustrating."

Her eyes cloud for a moment - a streak of across his cheek, smeared slightly.

She smiles softly. "You need something to inspire you, Salvatore. Feelings."

Her fingers tap lightly along the back of his hand - dizziness, joy, dancing, sunshine, love.

He smiled, glancing at his hand as the sensations emenated outwards.

"I do."

"Well," she replies, expression quietly thoughtful. "We are just going to have to find you something."

Something simple - the tug, the pull of something greater than yourself - something wonderful.

He smiled, leaned forwards, lips against her temple: "I should like to paint you, some time."

"Me?" another quick and skeptic glance, cheeks persistently flushed. "Why?"

Her gaze creeps back, helplessly curious.

"How, exactly, does one get painted?"

"One sits, or stands, and the painter makes an image of them."

"Oh," she tugs absently at the edges of her skirt. "That does not seem too difficult at all."

"I fear I am not a terrific painter, but, I would do my best."