D I O N Y S U S .

“Yeah?” he raised a brow, instantly interested at the mention of a gig. It’s one of his calling words, evidently. “What kind of music do you perform? That’s fuckin’ sick, love. Congrats.”

His throat’s still a bit scratchy which explains the honey coated tea warming his hands. His voice is pitched even deeper than usual but Jagger knows its on the mend. He’s grateful for that, anyways -- he’d had to go away on a road trip feeling like he’s felt for the past week. “Mediocre at best,” he rasps, taking a warm sip and reveling in the way it pleasantly scalds on the way down. “I think I’m finally starting to shake this cold, which is a positive. I’ve been out of commission when it comes to doing anything producitve for actual days.” Jagger groans, head shaking. “How’s Philip Icarus?”

It’s all entirely Jagger’s aesthetic, which makes sense considering Kai’s been treating him to all of his favourite things on their outing to Portland. He feels the poetry being recited reverberating in his bloodstream and he closes his eyes. Not that it makes much of a difference, visually. The venue’s been artistically dimmed for the occasion, darkness permeated only by a backlit sign with stark white text casting half shadows on the speaker and the entirety of the audience. When he reopens his eyes, they’re drawn to Kai’s profile without hesitation, drinking in his features with a healthy appreciation for his beauty. It’s sensory overload and he takes a generous sip of his drink to try and dampen the headrush of emotions and lessen the impulse to lean over to capture his lips for a kiss. Jagger manages a compromise by sliding his free hand across the table, fingertips grazing the back of Kai’s knuckles. Contact. Contact is nice. // @lcncasters

“Pen lyrics and compose music I can be truly proud of, thus creating a consistent quality of songs that becomes my own personal aesthetic. That aesthetic is both genuine and has mass appeal so, naturally, artists flock to me from around the world. I become known as the go-to for smash hits with actual content, turning the Top 40s into a chart everyone is actually proud to consider their type of music instead of something they admit to with a sheepish shrug. I want to own the charts in all genres but with my name in the production credits and not as the performer. And yet, I’m still the Name of the music. Famous but still obscure. More than certain washed out rockers could ever claim. That’s The Dream.”

“Who said it’s acting? What exactly do I give a shit about? I do not recall.”

“I’d release a sex tape just to show the world how to please your partner right because I’m a true gift. If it happened to bring along fame and notoriety, so be it. But it’d have to be a cinematic masterpiece for me to even consider releasing it, to be honest. I’m talking multiple camera angles, flawless production, full credits page, ambient lighting, you know, the works. Aspiring filmmakers make your business inquires at [email protected].”

He’s at the coffee shop to -- wait for it -- get a coffee. He’s become a bit of a dependent of late (as is the addictive nature of his personality, he supposes) and he’s dropped by frequently enough to be regarded as a regular. Jagger likes to think the workstaff would make it a point to know and remember his name regardless of his visiting frequency but perhaps that’s a little too vain, even for him. Leaning against the front counter and flirting with the barista is how Isaiah happens upon him and, truthfully, he’s not looking for a third participant to his conversation either. However, he’s not rude (all the time) so he turns to give the other a subtle once over before clearing his throat with a shrug. “That’s rich consider it’s you who approached me. Remind me to get a restraining order next time I stop by city hall.” Still, he slides over to allow Isaiah to get his refill, lingering near the till. “If you had been expecting me, I’d probably be even more concerned. Don’t remember scheduling a coffee date for today, you know?”

Jagger likes to pretend he enjoys his coffee best black, like his soul. He likes to pretend he loves drinks that match his aesthetic: Bitter and Hot. However, he refuses to believe it reveals anything about his character that he’s secretly sipping on a sugary sweet caramel latte, complete with whipped cream. Evidently, his trope is about to be ruined today, though, as someone approaches and calls him out on a dab of whip in the corner of his mouth. “And?” he prompts with a raise of his brow. “Maybe I want it there -- maybe I was saving it for later.”

Knocking is a convention they have long since left behind and he doesn’t even think twice before fishing his keys out of the back pocket of his painted on jeans. He supposes the shuffling on the other side of the door should have been his first clue that Kai wasn’t alone in his flat. He supposes he could have tried the handle and found that it was, indeed, already unlocked which served as a possible sign that someone had recently entered who wasn’t the owner. He supposes he could have seen this coming but he really truly doesn’t. Which is why opening the door to an eyeful of Kai and Elliot in a rather compromising position catches Jagger off guard (for once in his life). He adapts quickly though, bless him, and a wry grin spreads across his lips. “Knock knock,” he drawls lowly, aiming for subtle interruption. // @lcncasters @ellictism

JAGGER: my mouth, for one. i was definitely thinking someplace a bit more intimate. can you guess?