[ Gale isnβt the sort to attend a place like this, all low light and enticing whispers. Not out of any sort of judgment, mind, more a lack of interest β he so rarely falls for others, crawling from one all-consuming devotion to the next. His latest (and greatest) folly has been over for year now, though the damage it wrought remains, dual pangs in his chest and heart. Dates end before they start. Set-ups fizzle out. Few support him through it, and the ones continue to do so have finally tired of his melancholy. Fair enough, he supposes, with his heavy gaze weighing them down, and dour asides sapping the verve from many a conversation.
When he agrees to this β an attempt at breaking his rut β hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all thatβs been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but heβd hate to let the others down β or waste someoneβs time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or β he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you donβt have to β apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesnβt it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
WALKING DOWN THE STREET.
When he agrees to this β an attempt at breaking his rut β hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all thatβs been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but heβd hate to let the others down β or waste someoneβs time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or β he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you donβt have to β apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesnβt it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
βI meant to call ahead.