🍷　↳ lounge (ic)

caspian exhales, slow and measured, though it does little to steady the pull in his chest. altair's words settle between them, raw and unguarded, unraveling something he had not accounted for- something that makes his pulse falter, just for a fraction of a second. he watches the way altair's fingers twitch, the way they hesitate, the way they want. the smudge of charcoal on his fingertip feels like evidence of something unsaid, something lurking beneath the surface. his thumb brushes over it absently, as though he could press it deeper, as though he could keep it.

"it was not obligation," he murmurs, voice quieter now, lower, but no less certain. "i do not extend courtesies out of politeness, nor do i offer what i am unwilling to share." he should stop there, should let the moment settle and slip away, but altair's voice - thick with drink, coated in the slow drawl of his accent - leaves caspian wading through each syllable, trying to grasp at their meaning before they slip between his fingers. perhaps it is the exhaustion, or perhaps it is simply him, the way he speaks, the way he is - careless and careful all at once. his gaze flickers to the way altair leans into the ink-stained palm, feigning an ease that caspian does not believe for a second. restraint lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers hesitate rather than take. "mmm," he hums at last, rolling his shoulders as though to shake off the exhaustion that still clings to him. "i came to clear my head. perhaps to work, though i expect i shall prove rather useless in that regard today." his fingers drum lightly against the cup, a slow, absent rhythm, before his gaze flickers back to altair, a quiet curiosity settling there. "and what, pray tell, were you about to say?" he sips from the other cup, leaning inward. closer. "must i beg to be indulged?"

"i wan'to. take it, i mean," he mutters, quick, defensive. the words escape altair's lips before he even has the chance to consider them, too fast to be anything but a gut reaction and for a moment, he himself is confused - by the depth of an interaction that by all means should be superficial. by his quiet desire to do right by a man that should not yet have the right to his truth. but, like a man lost to the tides, he clings to the unspoken what ifs like to a broken raft. ( and yet - another yet - a part of him knows this is the kind of water he would not mind drowning in. ) "but i don'make a habit out of takin' things offered out of obligation. rather you'd share cause y'want to, no need for politeness."

the words could be harsh, he supposes, if it were not for the tenderness of his voice. his chest is filled with the kind of ache that could only be described as melancholy - or, no, not quite. because there is no real sadness mixed into that sweet pain, no real hurt; perhaps it is longing instead, yearning, though for what he does not know. so instead he allows his focus to shift to the dark smudge his skin leaves on the singular beauty that is caspian's fingerpad and nods, his own digits twitching once more, as if this time he could give in, as if this time his resolve could break. at the end he has the steady hands of an artist though - the kind that does not move until actively told to, no matter how much it aches to. "mh. was sketchin' new wanna dos for the studio. need t'start gettin' more folks in," he answers easily, shifting so his free arm can rest atop the table between them, cheek in his eternally stained palm. "no success, tho, been strugglin' to find muse. i could... ah. nah, nevermind. y'come here to work?"

altair’s voice is softer than expected, rough around the edges but warm, threading through the air like something meant to be caught. his hand remains still beneath altair’s own, fingertips barely curled around the cup, the heat of it pressing into his palm but not nearly enough to thaw the ache in his bones. for a long moment, he doesn’t move. just watches the way altair lingers, how his fingers are close enough to touch but don’t—not quite.

and then, deliberate and slow, caspian lets his pointer finger shift, running along the ridge of altair’s own, gathering the smudge of charcoal between them. it stains the pad of his fingertip, a mark of something unspoken, something tethered between them. his breath leaves him quietly, barely a sound. when he looks up at altair, the weight of it all crashes into him—the grief, the weariness, the wanting—and for a long beat, he just looks at him, something simmering under the surface, thick as the salt in the air. "figured you'd take it," he murmurs, voice low, a quiet admission of something unspoken. the corners of his lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile, not quite. "i wouldn't be against hearing more... bull, as you say." he continues, looking back at his lingering finger. "were you drawing?"

a few steps and he is at the table. two more and he's closer to caspian's chair than the free one he should be settling on. altair's fingers twitch at his sides, black with ink and charcoal, staining everything he touches - and touching is what he is wanting to do no, an itch he might try scratching at until the bones of his knuckles shine through. he does not, of course, not when caspian looks so transluscent, a mere spectre within a frankly mesmerizing figure.

"does, yeah. don't get me wrong, whole rugged 'n messy look fits ya, really does, but i reckon it'd be nicer if it were just-" he starts, the vowels of his words curling helplessly around the bad jokes, the poor attempts at bringing some lightness into a situation that seems so heavy, so hard. "...just a look. shoot, m'usually better at this. the proper cheerin' up'n'all..." his voice trails off there at the end, all while he finally settles down, reaches out. his tattooed hand wraps around the cup, perhaps half an inch above the pure elegeance of caspian's digits, but it remains there for mere warmth. there is not a single move that indicates him pulling the cup closer to himelf, no interest in anything but the actual man so close to him shown within the darkness of his eyes. "...nah. been drinkin', y'see, gonna talk more bull if i add caffeine to it. 'sides, y'look like ya need it more."

caspian barely lifts his head, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavy on his shoulders. the voice is familiar but distant, like something heard in a dream. it’s only when he looks up—eyes sluggish, breath uneven—that recognition flickers. altair. caspian hesitates, gaze flickering to him for a moment too long. he looks different in the dim light—sharper, somehow softer all at once, the planes of his face just as striking as the carefully curated photos caspian had lingered on for too long. in the flesh, but realer, more present, not just a screen away. he remembers the way altair had flirted with him online, all smirks and clever words, how he’d let himself indulge—until the offhand comment about the sea’s cruelty had sent him spiraling, dragging him back into the depths of his worst memories.

his grip tightens around the coffees, a lifeline against the pull of his thoughts. he swallows, exhaustion making his voice rough. "yeah. guess it shows." a ghost of a smile, humorless and fleeting. he looks away, staring at the table instead, fingers tapping idly against the cups. anything to keep himself here, in the moment, and not where his mind wants to take him. "here," he mutters, voice rough with something unspoken. "figured i'd need two, but..." a small shrug, feigning indifference, though his grip on the remaining cup betrays him.

“What the ?” She huffed under her breath, coming to a halt, her kohled gaze trained down to her feet.

Her silver and gemstones-strapped Garavanis were a sight to behold but they were impractical for a lot of things; she knew this when she tried them on that morning. But nothing was going to stop her… nothing except the strap that had dared to slip out of the little buckle, halting her rush altogether. Wardrobe malfunctions were normal but when she was busy? Juliette inhaled a sharp breath, in her cheek to bite down on, hence refraining the curse that had bubbled up onto her tongue.

Nice thoughts, flat palms, relaxed shoulders. There are people here; don't bite their heads off. "Help anyone? My hands are unfortunately a bit full." The soft lilt of her voice carries itself across the room to the two gentlemen and she keeps a politely innocent smile plastered to her face, hiding the irk that was the weight of her Jacquemus tote and bra cup that was digging into her side.

WRONG ONE.

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the sound of another person entering the room has altair looking up from the sketchbook balanced on his lap, pages stained with smears of charcoal and droplets of the whiskey he has been indulging in for the better part of the day. the figure is unfamiliar at first - tall, somehow both slender and broad at the same time, broad shoulders and a tapered waist that would put the loveliest grecian statues to shame ; it isn't until a face that should only ever crease with lines of laughter instead of the worry it currently is decorated with comes into view that he recognizes the man who's social media he has been religiously watching. ( it is not obsession yet, he still tells himself. the 'yet' rings rather loudly in his mind. )

"long day?" he asks gently, softly enough to be ignored if so wanted. but because he is a weak man, because he is unable to do anything by, altair pushes up and out of his seat, moves towards the figure of the still-stranger. "y'look... exhausted."

caspian drifts into the room, shoulders heavy, long strides sluggish with exhaustion. his eyes, rimmed red from sleepless nights and the weight of his thoughts, barely lift from the floor. in his hands, two coffees, gripped like a lifeline; pressed to his side, a stack of notebooks teetering on the edge of his grasp. with a dull thud, he drops them onto the nearest table, papers slipping loose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. his disheveled hair falls into his face as he exhales sharply, then all but collapses into a chair, head tipping back, the weight of the day pressing him down.

suit yourself.
caspian smirks as he releases a hand from the other, grasping the warm cup within his palm once again to take a sip. the warmth spreads through him like wildfire, and earning a low hum from his tiers.
black? no, no way. close though. i prefer a little sweetness in my life. and how about you? how do you take your coffee?

her lips pressed together rather mischievously. she thought about it. she /really/ thought about it. taking a sip of some hot coffee sounded so good right now, but she quickly shook away the thought, waving her hand as her golden locks bounced from left to right.

nonono- i'm okay.

she beamed with her rejection, lunging forward over the couch as her eyes continued to linger on the heat radiating from his coffee.

do you drink it black?

a crooked smile lingers upon his tiers as he takes in her frame, his own leaning back against the frame of the wooden chair he sat upon. his arms stretch upwards into the air, fingers soon entangled in his hair on the back of his head.
coffee, always.
he glances at it, looking at her and feeling a sense of deja vu.
want some?

roseanne was bundled up in layers of clothing, her small frame drowned in the loose fit of her overcoat as she shivered into the lounge and plopped onto the couch, hoping to warm herself up with the bodies in the lounge. she clenched her eyes shut tight, trying to warm her eyelids as she nodded to the friendly voice.

in just a second...

she blew her hot breath onto her hands, rubbing them warm as she turned around on the couch with her knees digging into the cushions. she glanced curiously at caspian with a smile as her body flopped over the couch, sticking to the furnishing for warmth.

what are you drinking today?

he glances up from his laptop, one hand filled with a coffee cup as he orders a tired smile.
maybe you should have a warm drink to help warm you up?

omg it's so cold

there is a lazy smile on his lips as he slinks inside, the smell of nicotine and cold air following him in, tired eyes taking in the interior.
well, they sure cleaned up the place in the few days i was gone, huh.

he yawns and enters the room, choosing to splay upon the nearest sofa whilst looking up at the ceiling.

decadent was the small ceramic of chocolate melted into a thick drink with cinnamon and spice. roseanne's rosy lipstick kissed the brim with each little sip, the ceramic stained pink with her lips, her lips painted brown with chocolate. "my love," she addressed dami her head poking seemingly out of frame to catch her attention, melting into a wide grin as she caught the other's eye, reaching out her hand to be held, "let me show you the way."

looking at oleander walking in, she nods her head to them, "i'm okay— been bestfriends with headaches anyway." she laughs as she dismissively waves her hand in a nonchalant manner.

dami looks over at rico and subin respectively. without realising, her lips formed into a small pout, lower lips hurting out, as she looks around curiously. "where do i get these drink and food..."

shuffles around with her coat folded over her arm, and a warm mug of hot chocolate topped off with marshmallows and whipped cream. with a sigh she plops down in the cushioned seat beside the frosted windows of the quiet lounge, taking a slow slip of her rich drink.

He comes in with a heavy sigh, the search for sherry the beagle was fruitless. He slumps on the couch and on an apple popsicle to cool off.

they slowly make their way into the lounge, cane making light taps on the ground as they heaved themselves forward. they eventually find an empty couch to sit on, landing rather heavily on the soft cushion and putting away their mobility aid.

they look at dami after hearing her musing, a slight frown on their face as they ask with worry. “are you alright?”

slumps on the couch. ah, my headache.

he takes the cup back with a lingering smile, one brow raised as he takes a sip of it, almost leaning in to the other.
ah, i see. you had that - what is it called - middle child syndrome? i hear that’s a real thing. but, good to know. i wonder what other stereotypes are true.

snickers lightly into the cup, lowering it and handing it back to the other, leaning in just a tad closer, his cheeky smile a bit more playful now.
nah, ain't been a day in my life where that woman was proud of me. middle child and all. stereotypes' mostly true, tho.

ah, so the stereotypes are true. very interesting. I’m sure she would be proud, then.
he nods, eyes observing the side of the male’s visage before looking ahead, arms stretched upon the back of the couch as he casually lounges.

mh. my ma made sure to raise a gentleman, y'see. made sure to keep that up.
he reaches out, curling his fingers around the cup and taking a slow sip, a low hum of appreciation escaping the depths of his chest.

‘a good southern boy’, eh? how curious.
he shifts, long legs lazily bringing him to sit upon the couch besides the other as he extends the coffee towards him.
for your pleasure, if you wish.