seen from Sweden
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𝑡𝑒𝑥𝑡 ↬ 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛 + 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑖
damon: I'm being told we need to set up a date of some kind by my publicist. Apparently it's "been too long" since we were seen out together
damon: I'll take you out for dinner this week, if that works for your schedule. Do you have any preferences?
damon: My mother's been raving about some new Italian restaurant on East 83rd
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closed starter for @benjaminkauri
nearly four months they’ve been doing this--this weird, indulgent fake relationship for the media--and there’s been only a small number of times damon has actually spent time alone with benji. it hasn’t crossed his mind much, in all honesty; the company takes up a majority of his focus on a daily basis and with this brand new addition of getting ready to be on a fucking television show ( not to mention the added stress of finding somebody he trusts enough to delegate in his absence ), it’s hardly even occurred to damon to keep up with his fake boyfriend, as well. and it isn’t that he doesn’t like benji, either--giving into the pressure of a pr relationship had been one thing, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell damon would have gone along with it if he’d had any qualms whatsoever about the other person. benji’s easy, he doesn’t require much from damon beyond public appearance, and although he doesn’t show it damon really quite respects him for it. it’s the only reason he’d invited benji over. on a night when he has nothing else going on and had been planning on getting high anyway, easy company is far from the worst thing in the world.
he’s sitting in one of the high-backed armchairs in his living area, sipping at a scotch as he goes through the meticulous process of grinding the weed he’d promised, when the butler brings benji in and, with a formal bow, leaves again. “have a seat,” he says by way of greeting, indicating the sofa nearest to where he’s sitting. “you do smoke, don’t you?” he favors benji with a sharp grin, something that balances itself on the very edge of being feral. long, nimble fingers go to work pressing the pungent flower into a thin piece of wax paper and rolling it up neatly, with the sort of careful precision one might not expect from somebody rolling a joint. but that’s damon--everything he does, he does as if he’s competing, as if even now it matters to him that he’s the best. and it does. finishing the process, he lights the tip, leans languidly back in his chair, and takes a long drag. “it’s the only indulgence i allow myself on weekdays,” he says around the smoke, watching as a small cloud of it rises above his head and dissipates. he hands it over then, watching benji carefully as he takes it. “it’s good, isn’t it?”
