Place. Jeanne D’Arc. Time. Seven PM. Lito wasn't punctual. Lito was early. Six-thirty PM.
The night was a chilly one, though no part of him could be bothered to care. He had walked here. The large and sprawling distance between his home and the desired destination had latched the effluvia of his road onto his person; he smelled like the streets, like the roads, like the many elbows he’d brushed with in a literal manner, like his long, and stupidly winded journey he’d enjoyed like an adventurer to a forbidden city. Beneath all that, accumulated onto him like his real clothing, was the scent of the man; his subtle, gentle cologne. Enough to enhance the natural musk of his person. He wore the clothes for the part of a date, all dapper. And he had walked like that here, was important to mention, causing several looks of confused desire in those who’d noticed his looks; on those wandering itinerant gazes, on those noticing his curls, his salt and pepper coat. And then the levity of his steps, so other. So not quite from this world but like he had been taught how to walk by the creatures who did not. He glided, without noise.
A step after a step from a man who must have been mad for a certain, choosing to tackle this road on his own and without a driver behind a wheel asking him if the lucky lady of his choice was getting a flower.
No. Richard was not.
But like that, once again, and let’s rewind this necessary fact, like that Lito arrived here, into this restaurant they’d made a reservation for two weeks in advance and then prepared for, dolled up, like its new lively decor.
Lito walked in.
With his noiseless steps, with his presence.
It was almost hard to put into words. Like he itched, for the lack of anything else, itched for something that might have been rapidly disrobing himself and shedding the skin that made him appear human. Itched, endlessly and invisibly with his very calm and subtle being that didn’t quite meet what you’d expect him to think or say were he, indeed, just
He was not just a witch.
And this not just a witch was directed to their table, Richard yet absent, but his coat taken and the menu given, and the wine list explained before Richard could arrive here to make a quick mess of anyone thinking they played this game better than a peddler of human lust. Lito just smiled. And waited.
Looking over the wine list, feeling little desire to drink but he waited. Waited.
When he smelled him, he looked up.
Smelled him he had, a practice unlikely for a mere witch but Lito smiled surreptitiously, his serene, calm gaze darkening with forbidden amusement. He watched the man’s entrance.
Tall, groomed, and impossibly attractive, Richard walked himself in like he casually owned this as of this minute, and everyone out in an act that emptied the joint sans Lito and their future wine.
Lito’s tummy tumbled.
He watched him, striking, waltzing, and a waltz it was for a certain, that confident man’s walk towards his aim. Waltz, Lito thought, elegant, and possessive in such a subtle manner Lito at once felt this exciting sliver of an early apology for the cheek of invading the man’s space without a permit. He didn’t swallow it.
He didn’t shy from it.
He stood up.“Richard.”
He was sure his voice had trembled.
Dressed up as per usual, Richard shouldn't have made for any more impressive sight as he normally did. Shouldn’t have, a laughable and amusing concept that obviously didn’t apply for a moment, and Lito felt his breath catch in his throat, looking the man over, wondering if he himself compared in any manner.
He did not.
Did Richard hate that Lito’s shirt was unbuttoned at his neck?
That he wasn’t so prim and proper, a boundaries pusher who’d donned the look though his heart, you were certain, was out somewhere in the wild, merrily riddling these clothes through with scars.
He kept the smile.“You look good,”
he told him, his tone soft. Possessing of a faint quiver of a man who’d have rather seated himself and grabbed a fan for the heat in his face. He remained stood.
Stubborn, and staring, with the casual lust in his eyes so warm and open they were, so kind.
He bit on his lower lip.
And backed away by half a step, as though making the invitation to take a seat together. Next to each other with little space.