Wax

Thirty Nine

A/N: Ah!! Sorry this chapter had only two scenes ;-; Again I expected to have a little more time this weekend since it's the Easter holidays but I was out for half the day today spending time with my family :') I hope I don't bore you with the slow pace. 

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[Leroy]

He was about to say yes.

You could tell from the look in his eyes. A happy sheen, glinting under the light; how a midsummer pool does at every skim of its surface. Ripples. They erased all thoughts from before. Thoughts about the brushing of our fingers and his response.

Right there and then, taking in the way he'd jumped out 

of his skin at the contact was enough to put ideas into my head. Wasn't hard to arrive at a conclusion that involved him wanting to avoid me for some space but now, eyes locked, I knew I was wrong. The moment reminded me, strangely, in a way I didn't expect to realize just how long it'd been since we'd... spent time together. Alone. Close. Touching. Not in that way. But also in that way.

Fuck, it's in my head now.

The light in his eyes disappeared as soon as he lowered his gaze. Averting. "I... well that sounds... I'd love to but. There's a producer's meeting and reading in two hours and I have to get Leo settled in the room, so..."

I nodded. There was disappointment in his voice; mild, but not entirely hidden. At least not from me.

"Next time." He went on to add, glancing down at the keycard in his hands. "If that's alright with you."

The keycard distracted—reminded me of a time they slid down the front of shirts, slow and appreciative, between slender fingers of snow staying the night. The urge to run my fingers through his hair and give him the usual on his forehead sparked a brief movement toward him but I killed it in time, holding off just as Raul called from two counters down alongside Pao and Streisand.

"Next time." I agreed. And there he revealed the smile I had been waiting for. His shoulders eased, sighing a little. Relieved.

"Alright. I'll um. See you, then." He reached down to pat my boy on his head before turning to leave, looking over his shoulder with a tiny wave. I watched him go.

Half the line at the front desk had been cleared and people were beginning to filter into the lift lobby with their keycards. I waited at the counter for a bit until the staff from earlier returned with a keycard to my new Chicken-friendly room, then headed over to wait for an elevator.

"Hi again."

I turned. The same guy—the one at the airport. Standing a couple of feet behind in the lobby with his backpack, looking my way. I nodded once, then turned back round.

"So um. What floor are you on?"

I heard him step closer but Chicken put some space between him and I, watching him closely. My boy always had a knack for weeding out the ones to look out for. He never liked Erlynn. For years, I'd pinned it on the perfume she wore.

"Four."

"Oh. I'm three. We'd still get a good view of the gardens though. You think?"

Looking at him now, without the cloud of sleep and adrenaline that lasted throughout the first round back in London, I thought: fuck, I've seen him somewhere. Sure, could've been the thousands of EMS calls I'd ran for years or some odd job involving a photoshoot (food photography) but heck, nothing surfaced.