He lets out a breath, feeling oddly winded. Realising very belatedly that his hands are positively freezing, he buries them amidst the folds of his coat, taking at least five seconds too long to understand that he’s been posed a question. Oh. He wants to know… but naturally…
“Fortesque. Vincent Fortesque.” He wonders if he should reach out a hand. The trouble is, he’s been fantasizing about touching this man for so many weeks that he’s afraid even something so simple might just leave him undone. It’s pitiful, these unnatural… thoughts of his. Dreams. The dreams are the worst, really, with no natural stops except for his own willingness to abandon them and wake up. Unwilling to risk it, he simply drops his gaze, his worn leather shoes (the finest he’s got) looking black and nondescript in the darkness. “I’m a great admirer of yours. It’s not worth much, granted, but I wanted you to know.”
He turns away slowly, an odd sense of dejection leaving his chest feeling painfully tight. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it, because he’s finally done something to get ahead of his own thoughts. Perhaps tonight, his dreams will be less intrusive now that he’s… done his best to sate what can’t fully be silenced. On the other hand, the thought of his narrow bed, of Mother’s newly-washed sheets and Father’s tired look as he comes home late enough to count the stars in the sky… It’s doing nothing to distract his mind and everything to leave him wishing… wanting… Gods. Can there be no end to this?
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“Fortesque. Vincent Fortesque.” He wonders if he should reach out a hand. The trouble is, he’s been fantasizing about touching this man for so many weeks that he’s afraid even something so simple might just leave him undone. It’s pitiful, these unnatural… thoughts of his. Dreams. The dreams are the worst, really, with no natural stops except for his own willingness to abandon them and wake up. Unwilling to risk it, he simply drops his gaze, his worn leather shoes (the finest he’s got) looking black and nondescript in the darkness. “I’m a great admirer of yours. It’s not worth much, granted, but I wanted you to know.”
He turns away slowly, an odd sense of dejection leaving his chest feeling painfully tight. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it, because he’s finally done something to get ahead of his own thoughts. Perhaps tonight, his dreams will be less intrusive now that he’s… done his best to sate what can’t fully be silenced. On the other hand, the thought of his narrow bed, of Mother’s newly-washed sheets and Father’s tired look as he comes home late enough to count the stars in the sky… It’s doing nothing to distract his mind and everything to leave him wishing… wanting… Gods. Can there be no end to this?