Thread: [Closed] You Can Call it What You Want (dearestdarling and dmm4kes)

RE You Can Call it What You Want dearestdarling and dmm4kes I dunno, Ray teased at the notion that Lance had stolen his stage name from anything less than a savory source. He twisted sideways stare down towards the sweatslick would-be Casanova laying flat on his back, resisting the urge to chuckle aloud at the over-exaggerated gestures as some inexplicable variety of rigormortis set in to an actor who refused to simply die . Maybe he's just sophisticated in a way you don't ...get, he lamented in tandem with one of Lance's last few death throes. The remark came with a deadpan delivery all Ray's own. Then that grin, now somewhat goofier, returned. The invitation came unexpectedly, and when it did, Ray did well not to openly stammer. Instead, he relegated his surprise to a nigh discernible widening of the eyes followed closely by a slack-jawed fumble. I-ah... Sure? Maybe. Have fun. Maybe I'll see you, Ray managed to utter by simply slowing himself down enough to focus on each syllable independent of its descendant. His head turned to follow her movement, and then when she paused, there was a tangible uncertainy. Both brows lifted. His heart stopped for a moment. He saw only the twin thunderstorms in her eyes while a distinctly floral scent mingled with something more natural. That light touch was enthralling in a way that was both alarming and comforting. It was such a simple gesture, yet in that moment, it felt somehow profound in a way that Ray could neither explain nor justify. Thanks. See ya, he trailed off, and without letting his gaze take the tantalizing route of watching Tessa walk away, the stagehand quietly made way backstage once again. For the first time that evening, the man was free to paint, and that was what he did. He lost himself for nearly two more hours, and thoughts of his job, classwork, and any other to-do items on his Wunderlist were eclipsed entirely by Tessa and her invitation. The thought alone was haunting such that, by the end of his painting spree, Ray was enamored with the fantasy that some alternate version of himself might simply shrug off the consequences. His life was his own, after all, and nothing tethered him to being home at a certain time not even the ring. She was just being nice. I've never even been to a club. I can barely stand bars. What the Hell would we even talk about without that jackass on hand for entertainment? She's a kid. It would just be weird. Ray rattled off a familiar mantra of skepticism that often kept him from indulging in social activities. He didn't consciously recognize that last little pause in Tessa before she'd departed, but instincts couldn't deny that attraction. There was a spark there, but for the moment he could only think of that stormy gaze and the simple but delicate touch which had left a faint thumbprint in crimson upon his cheek. A gentle instrumental tune serenaded him in a quiet loop as he sat half an hour later in the parked SUV in his driveway. The night wasn't over until he went inside and began the routine of winding down for bed. As it turned out, that came just before midnight when Ray settled into the same guest bedroom he'd been occupying for nearly three months. A glass of bourbon, SportsCenter, and thoughts of that brief encounter lulled him into a restless but nonetheless fulfilling sleep.