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Post by TATE OWENS on Mar 18, 2015 1:59:36 GMT
he fidgets under jonah's unwavering attention, what feels like palpable heat from his stare, heat that creeps up the nape of his neck and curls up in his ribcage. he's always been part of the scenery, a drooping dandelion on the wallpaper—spared not a second glance. and he has never learned to say no. which is why tate swallows dryly, laces and unlaces his fingers. his face burns. "um, i." the other's admiring remarks chase his thoughts around and around, makes it dizzyingly difficult to piece together a coherent phrase. "um. yes, i guess? if... that's what you'd like?" |
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Post by JONAH STERLING on Mar 18, 2015 4:04:47 GMT
a flush of the cheeks, a stuttering of words. the quiet flower, his little wallflower, fights to form words, an answer. he wears still his smile, yet there’s a slight fall of his lips as he watches. a concerned narrowing of the space between his brows. “have i made you uncomfortable?” the words come after moments of prolong silence. “i’m sorry.” an urge to touch him flares again. skin to skin contact, a comforting embrace. he begins walking instead. tate can follow or leave, he hopes the latter. “shall we keep going?” TATE OWENS |
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Mar 19, 2015 19:53:42 GMT
Post by TATE OWENS on Mar 19, 2015 19:53:42 GMT
he ponders the question like a thought suspended in air, as frozen and still as the winter backdrop. discomfort—it's part of a nervous disposition, stitched into his skin like a misfitted sweater he can't take off, only pick apart. tate doesn't mind it anymore. he thinks the stirring in his chest is something altogether different, anyways. it's pleasant, almost giddy. "no, it's not that. i'm sorry if it seemed that way," he speaks with conviction, meets jonah's eyes briefly and then looks away sheepishly. "i'm... happy. no one's said that about me before." tate follows. "um, is there anything specific you wanted to do today?" |
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Post by JONAH STERLING on Mar 20, 2015 3:39:57 GMT
voice with surprising conviction raised to be heard, a glance over his shoulder—tate follows. it’s the confirmation jonah needs. their eyes meet, brief but loaded with things unspoken. his smile stretches a little wider. “that’s a shame. you’re truly underappreciated.” a small chuckle joins the soft sounds of snow crunching underfoot and wind’s whisper. “they don’t have eyes like mine. they can’t see your worth.” but there is more than what’s spoken, words he’s left unsaid. admissions premature could ruin what they’re building in this meeting. jonah is careful. pockets become restraints, holding back eager hands from urges to touch, to feel tate’s skin—him. “yes.” a topic change saves him from saying more than needed. “i considered the weather, and thought it would be appropriate to go ice skating. but i believe we should get something warm first. would you like to grab coffee?” TATE OWENS |
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Post by TATE OWENS on Mar 21, 2015 2:09:07 GMT
they're sitting in a cozy café, tucked against the wall. tate nurses a cup of black coffee between numb hands, eyes skimming their surroundings. the tables and chairs are mostly two-seaters, garden-variety—wrought iron and spindly legs, floral cushions and a candle on each table. he sees many couples, all adoring gazes and laced hands. it feels like an intrusion of privacy to watch them, so he quickly turns his attention back to the man facing him. the insidious thought that jonah might've deliberately picked a popular date spot knocks on his mind, uninvited. tate politely turns it away before it can settle in. he thinks back to one of the conversation starters he'd looked up online the night before, speaks up tentatively. "...do you have any siblings?" |
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Post by JONAH STERLING on Mar 21, 2015 2:44:49 GMT
his choice of café is no mistake. two to a table, flickering glow of candles. cozy and charming, there’s a romantic ambiance to it, and he doesn’t care if tate realizes it or not. a dainty porcelain cup lifts from the table, thin curling handle held between his fingers. he breathes in. creamy, sweet with floral notes. love tea. black tea with chocolate, strawberries and rose petals. hot it may be but he takes as long a sip as he can manage without burning his tongue. clinking softly on the table is the cup. he studies the quiet boy, his heavy eyes and nervous tremors. the one to finally stir up conversation is tate, a surprise. “i have a sister. she’s younger. you?” TATE OWENS |
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Post by TATE OWENS on Mar 21, 2015 3:20:08 GMT
he takes his own drink in small sips. it's strong and bitter, but goes down smoothly and pools warm in the pit of his stomach. he doesn't like the taste—only it's become habitual medicine after sleepless nights. tate rubs at the faintly discolored skin under his eyes, hopes the other doesn't look too closely and notice the dark circles. "i don't have any," he says, a little forlornly. he grew up with stuffed animals, long-loved playmates, made do with books and an airy imagination. "what is she like?" a tinge of melancholy creeps into the question. |
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Post by JONAH STERLING on Mar 21, 2015 3:56:04 GMT
warmth steeps from inside out. unstraying is the gaze that holds tate at its focus. his curled fingers become a resting place for his soft cheek. content, he could stay forever in this moment. fleeting time is so he locks the moments in his brain to draw from later once parted. “you sound disappointed.” he draws in another drink from the porcelain. he holds the cup out by the stem, an offering. “would you like to try a sip?” no one asks personal questions of jonah, no one is interested. its pictures they want from him. “she is…” trailing off, he struggles for the words. “a whirlwind. a stray dog, hungry for anything it can get its paws on.” an idle finger taps the rhythm of his thoughts on his cheek. a soft chuckle. “i adore her.” TATE OWENS |
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Post by TATE OWENS on Mar 21, 2015 4:34:12 GMT
lonely is the word. he imagines what a sibling would've been like, someone to trade secrets, build pillow forts with on rainy days. "i—" he falters, suddenly aware of how closely his heart hangs to his sleeve, a burden he doesn't want to impose on jonah. he swallows back weighty words, tries again with a brittle smile. "not really. i've... just wondered what it's like." the offered cup's a distraction. tate takes the teacup carefully, gratefully, and sips. it's sweet, almost cloying on his tongue, washes away the bitterness. he passes it back and studies his own cup, the dark liquid. he doesn't touch the coffee again. "i like it. your sister sounds..." the word doesn't come. he doesn't have jonah's eloquence, and the thought of his own inferiority makes him feel flustered again in front of the other. "i'd like to meet her maybe," tate finishes. |
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Post by JONAH STERLING on Mar 21, 2015 4:55:37 GMT
childhood memories shared together with a sibling of which tate is lacking. jonah can see its weight in his eyes, the loneliness. on the edge of confession, on the edge of his seat. tate pulls back, the tantalizing morsel pulled from his hungry jaws. a sip, another offer of the cup. he feels closer with a shared cup between them. “you may. she lives in town.” often he sees her without warning. she comes around when need arises, for food or money. “you may be surprised. we look nothing alike.” opposites, too different but united in blood bonds. it him whose the odd one, a strange combination of genetics resembling neither parent. listless expressions giving way to their shared parentage. TATE OWENS |
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