roman wants a fight. tight-wound muscles, jaw overworking a clench, he wants this to turn into a fight. ruin whatever somber mood kept trying to sink its claws in the longer damian stayed at a well-intentioned distance. further than a split brand and shoddy booking.. this was getting old.
" oh an' you know what i mean, huh ? " indignant, he's bowed, strung taut and testing fists that have nowhere to go but his sides. idled at hips, he'd wonder if they were noticed, were there not a strangle hold on his focus, pulling him here, into a conversation about to turn one-sided. " you can read my mind an' know i'm playin' games ? " pushing. pulling. this yo-yo of affection that should but doesn't stop because phone calls go missed and one more texts sits on read.
" ..don't know shit. " roman mumbles the challenge, but means it.
busy isn't the right word for a loaded schedule. busy implies he's had a say in which flights took him where.. which hands needed shook. around the world ten times over and here, now, he's stopped out of want to do so, not obligation.
" you think i like bein' in this shithole city ? " he and des moines have a long-standing resentment of one another, " i say i came here to see you, best believe i mean it. " @turpitudae 's doubts are in his eyes now, dark-ringed and unconvinced in spite of raised hackles and bared teeth. " keep playin' and see what's good. "