[ It's outside of one of the parties, in the heart of Mirth, where he sees the man that claims to know him, again.
He hadn't planned on staying, but a job had brought him out this far, and he'd heard the doors were open to everyone--he isn't so stingy as to slide through the crowd of people, taking food and drink to squirrel back to where he's staying, but there's a pervasive sense of loneliness about the season that he can't quite describe. Even with the way that he knows others should keep their distance, and he doesn't want them around anyway, he finds the tension in his body lessen a little, seeing people in this place enjoy their time together. For all the horrors he feels like he's experienced, this doesn't seem so bad.
Still: a party is a party, and he's terrible at parties. Rather than stick around, he awkwardly clings to the outside of the groups chatting and laughing together, snagging a glass of some sweet, bubbly sort of drink to cradle in his hands before stepping outside. The house and adjoining rooms are too warm; with the mako in his blood, it feels dangerously like overheating.
When he takes a seat on the stoop, hands slung between his knees, he sees it: the man, Vincent, in all of his dark glory.
At this point, it almost amuses him. ] Hey.
[ There's a soft nod of acknowledgement; he tips his glass up a little, ignorant of the fact that there's a sprig of mistletoe above him, hanging off the awning of the door to the house behind him. ] You don't need to, but there's food and drink inside if you want. Pretty sure they might want to talk to you though. You...stand out a little more than me.
closed — vincent
He hadn't planned on staying, but a job had brought him out this far, and he'd heard the doors were open to everyone--he isn't so stingy as to slide through the crowd of people, taking food and drink to squirrel back to where he's staying, but there's a pervasive sense of loneliness about the season that he can't quite describe. Even with the way that he knows others should keep their distance, and he doesn't want them around anyway, he finds the tension in his body lessen a little, seeing people in this place enjoy their time together. For all the horrors he feels like he's experienced, this doesn't seem so bad.
Still: a party is a party, and he's terrible at parties. Rather than stick around, he awkwardly clings to the outside of the groups chatting and laughing together, snagging a glass of some sweet, bubbly sort of drink to cradle in his hands before stepping outside. The house and adjoining rooms are too warm; with the mako in his blood, it feels dangerously like overheating.
When he takes a seat on the stoop, hands slung between his knees, he sees it: the man, Vincent, in all of his dark glory.
At this point, it almost amuses him. ] Hey.
[ There's a soft nod of acknowledgement; he tips his glass up a little, ignorant of the fact that there's a sprig of mistletoe above him, hanging off the awning of the door to the house behind him. ] You don't need to, but there's food and drink inside if you want. Pretty sure they might want to talk to you though. You...stand out a little more than me.