Aaaaaa, here they go. Norman settles into the booth and gently clears his throat. Oh, yes. He will be needing a drink. Maybe something strong. For this meeting, something unbelievably strong
( Read more... )
...We have His Majesty H. 'Miles' Fish, who looks like he's desperately trying to conceal his excitement over the fact that he's just won the lottery like five times in a row. He is practically vibrating, he's so revved up about this. How awesome this is. How random.
After dashing away to make sure he doesn't look like he's weeping shadowy tears of eyeliner or anything, Fish takes his place on the opposite side of the booth with far less enthusiasm than he feels. Read: minimal bouncing.
When prompted, he cops out majorly: "Iiii'm gonna have whatever he has." Please order something awesome, sir.
"He'll have a Shirley Temple, extra cherries. I'll have a Red Bomb. No ice." Because he's not going to get busted for giving booze to a minor. He almost got arrested for speeding, which would have made him the biggest laughing-stock of the business. Pff. Getting arrested for speeding away from the body drop. Nice. ...Oh. "Please."
As the monstrously big man of a waiter casually wanders back to the bar, Norman finds something to occupy his need to fidget. Texting someone, secretively under the table, will do for now. Heh. Guess who's on? His eyes stay on the youth across from him, letting that deadpan gaze simply be.
Now, to work on something to say. ... Uh... "How old are you this year?"
What, a Shirley Temple, for serious? Weak. Fish wrinkles his nose, pouts his lips out in obvious displeasure, and sinks down on the bench, some. The collar of his jacket brushes against his cheeks as his jacket puffs up in his slouch-and then he sits up, abruptly, scooting his butt right to the backrest.
"Eighteen. ... So, like..." He gestures toward the bar with an open hand, palm up, showing off a wrist decorated with string bracelets and a thick leather watchband. The gesture, it says, Hi, why are you stiffing me on the booze front?
Did he just... Oh, no you did not, small sir. Whatever pleasantry to his expression he might have had melts away into mild displeasure. Those brows furrow and those beautiful eyes just throw daggers right at the boy. And his leg moves. Who knows where, really? Most likely he's just--... Heh heh. Oh, you lucky little bastard. "Good memory." He might have had to go peach stomping if you had kept on slouching.
Without ever looking to the gestured bar, Norman shakes his head, which has relaxed back to something more casual and not-grumpy-old-man-ish. "Don't be stupid. Not while you're still roaming places you don't know."
That shoe fights, mostly out of the grown man's own playfulness, moving forward by only a few centimeters. A smirk, shy of a smile, curves along his lips to the sound of such a lovely giggle. Oh, he's missed that. ngh "Did I stutter, shortstack?"
"Nohhh... you didn't." Agh! This is a wily piece of footwear, it is. He'll have to employ strategic measures to fend it off.
Above the table, Miles just grins, and grins, and abruptly stops grinning to stick his tongue out one side of his mouth, licking at his upper lip in an exaggerated show of effort. Below the table, there is pushing and tugging, denim-covered thighs squeezing in an attempt to hold the boot in place, and nimble little fingers tugging at whatever has it fastened to Norman's foot. Laces or buckles, it's all the same to him-they must be loosened! For victory!
A small airy chuckle breathes out, swift and soft, to the boy's playing. Norman wiggles his foot slowly, trying to weasel the toe of his shoe closer to its destination. There's a surprising amount of strength in his efforts, though not yet enough to do any real harm. ngfh
A knee jerks at the sensation of small fingers investigating the man's footwear. Laces under buckles, which should be some effort to undo. "He-hey. Don't do that. You'll kill yourself with my atomic feet."
"Your atomic feet are gonna squash my nads, dude." Yes, he says this loudly enough that the nearest customers may glance over this way. He's not shouting drunk, or anything, just... just happy. He is a happy little man right now.
"Guh-hah!" Oop- too loud. Miles shrinks down even further in his seat, his glee bubbling up and over in a steady stream of low snickering. He's pulling stubbornly at the laces, but all this squirming is making his efforts useless. "Stahh-haw-hawp iiiit, you're gonna squish meeeeeeeheehee!"
Why, of course. When it comes to people he will, in all likelihood, never meet again, Fish is more or less obligated to engage in scandal, noise, wacky hijinks, or otherwise making an ass of himself. It's under this mantle that the boy takes his friend's arm and, on their way out of the pub, tosses a flirty look over his shoulder. Why yes, unsettled man over there, these fluttering dark eyelashes and tidy pursed lips are just for you! Just wait a while, sir! You could be next!
Haha. Ha. Yeah. Never mind that the suggestion alone is making Miles a little pink in the cheeks. He'd have to be a hell of a lot more inebriated than this to play it up any further.
Keeping the kid close, being as it's night in London and that's when all the freaks and vampires come out(hahaha), Norman guides the youth back toward the Nexus, Superior. "So, remember. Do something good with the cash if it goes with you. Stay out of too much trouble. Give your Ma a hug for me. And if we ever meet up again..." Cue the floppy wrist movement to indicate the youth of self. You know what to do. Or so he hopes.
Indeed, he knows. Miles is good like that. He's also good for being reluctant to withdraw from the personal space of others, but manages to peel himself away before any feelings of awkwardness arise-a few moments of that familiar hurt can be dealt with. Making himself out to be a clingy little tadpole, yeah, not so much.
"Thanks. ...I mean, seriously, thanks. I'm, like..." He's, like, kind of flailing his little hands like he can't find a word, and now one of them is flailing in front of his face, and augh god, gotta go. "Sorry. I mean, not sorry, just- yeah." Augh, no, the uncontrollable twitchy frown! Gotta go, Fish. So shut up and go. ...Oh, all right.
Miles makes one more quick dive into interpersonal territory for a quick, tight hug, mashes his face into his tall friend's coat, and squeaks out something that vaguely resembles the most terrifying three words in the English language... and then he's off, skittering away before he can embarrass himself any further.
"Go!" He's slightly amused at how emotional the boy is over this little meeting, but sympathizes with someone's need to shoo before they cry all over the fucking place.
Watching that scrambling back, Norman rubs at his cheek, right where that chaste little peck had landed. Gosh, Asamar. Looks like you are not completely despised. And those words are only going to keep him up a little tonight. He's never had someone tell him that. Ever.
Be good, Miles. Or I'll never get any fucking sleep...
Comments 54
After dashing away to make sure he doesn't look like he's weeping shadowy tears of eyeliner or anything, Fish takes his place on the opposite side of the booth with far less enthusiasm than he feels. Read: minimal bouncing.
When prompted, he cops out majorly: "Iiii'm gonna have whatever he has." Please order something awesome, sir.
Reply
As the monstrously big man of a waiter casually wanders back to the bar, Norman finds something to occupy his need to fidget. Texting someone, secretively under the table, will do for now. Heh. Guess who's on? His eyes stay on the youth across from him, letting that deadpan gaze simply be.
Now, to work on something to say. ... Uh... "How old are you this year?"
Reply
"Eighteen. ... So, like..." He gestures toward the bar with an open hand, palm up, showing off a wrist decorated with string bracelets and a thick leather watchband. The gesture, it says, Hi, why are you stiffing me on the booze front?
Reply
Without ever looking to the gestured bar, Norman shakes his head, which has relaxed back to something more casual and not-grumpy-old-man-ish. "Don't be stupid. Not while you're still roaming places you don't know."
Reply
That shoe fights, mostly out of the grown man's own playfulness, moving forward by only a few centimeters. A smirk, shy of a smile, curves along his lips to the sound of such a lovely giggle. Oh, he's missed that. ngh "Did I stutter, shortstack?"
Reply
Above the table, Miles just grins, and grins, and abruptly stops grinning to stick his tongue out one side of his mouth, licking at his upper lip in an exaggerated show of effort. Below the table, there is pushing and tugging, denim-covered thighs squeezing in an attempt to hold the boot in place, and nimble little fingers tugging at whatever has it fastened to Norman's foot. Laces or buckles, it's all the same to him-they must be loosened! For victory!
Reply
A knee jerks at the sensation of small fingers investigating the man's footwear. Laces under buckles, which should be some effort to undo. "He-hey. Don't do that. You'll kill yourself with my atomic feet."
Reply
"Guh-hah!" Oop- too loud. Miles shrinks down even further in his seat, his glee bubbling up and over in a steady stream of low snickering. He's pulling stubbornly at the laces, but all this squirming is making his efforts useless. "Stahh-haw-hawp iiiit, you're gonna squish meeeeeeeheehee!"
Reply
Haha. Ha. Yeah. Never mind that the suggestion alone is making Miles a little pink in the cheeks. He'd have to be a hell of a lot more inebriated than this to play it up any further.
Reply
Reply
"Thanks. ...I mean, seriously, thanks. I'm, like..." He's, like, kind of flailing his little hands like he can't find a word, and now one of them is flailing in front of his face, and augh god, gotta go. "Sorry. I mean, not sorry, just- yeah." Augh, no, the uncontrollable twitchy frown! Gotta go, Fish. So shut up and go.
...Oh, all right.
Miles makes one more quick dive into interpersonal territory for a quick, tight hug, mashes his face into his tall friend's coat, and squeaks out something that vaguely resembles the most terrifying three words in the English language... and then he's off, skittering away before he can embarrass himself any further.
Reply
Watching that scrambling back, Norman rubs at his cheek, right where that chaste little peck had landed. Gosh, Asamar. Looks like you are not completely despised. And those words are only going to keep him up a little tonight. He's never had someone tell him that. Ever.
Be good, Miles. Or I'll never get any fucking sleep...
Reply
Leave a comment