@lawgaultier π shared bedroom, the brownstone, new york
the cold morning turns into a still afternoon. restless feet tap against the floors as he moves around the brownstone; after what happened with him and law he ought to get out of there--it is rather fine to make a scene around people you won't see again, he is not used to doing it and then sticking around.
likely neither is law, for the man has been rather absent when once he was almost constant with his pretty face and his deep gaze and his intoxicating smell.
doesn't help the dream con had, the things that were happening as whatever this was settled in their skins and their bones. it took a lot to get comfortable in his own skin, conall doesn't feel too great to feel everything changing with no choice of his own.
he turns to the bedroom for refuge, likely empty at that hour and it is precisely there things unravel further.
french, the words fluctuating around him, a puzzle he tries to piece together while a rich voice course corrects--turning to english with a heavy accent he cares not to hide conall notices.
the man, older, with greying hair on his head on his beard smiles. kind, mischievous, joined it by another with an even more boisterous laughter.
he does not fit in with them, he should not overstay his welcome, but hands keep his larger body in place--easy as it'd be to turn them away, piercing gazes make him unable, unwilling to move away. he wanted to steal from them, now it feels like he is the one being stolen.
sitting on the lap of a man half his size and double his age. guided by another whose hands caress him like he is a thing of wonder--not the first, but the sincerity makes it hard to deal with. to deny.
they whisper sweet words he does not understand but doesn't need to, not when soft lips meet his own and his face is guided from one to the other, until time is lost, until three become one and his unquiet feet get silent for a very long while.
the memory assaults him as he stumbles in, staring wide-eyed into the deep gaze of someone who's voice. soft, luxurious, takes on that same familiar, heart piercing tone.
conall's feet falter, mind reeling. "that..." he cannot find something to say quick enough, to explain, or deny. "that wasn't. did you," he knew so, he wasn't so dim. he knew what was happening around. "you saw it?"
