Katurian K. Katurian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pillowmania) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-07-11 11:43 am
pillowmania) wrote in thecapitol2013-07-11 11:43 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who| Katurian and Sherlock.
What| An encounter.
Where| The Tesserae Bar.
When| Week 3.
Warnings/Notes| Will add as necessary.
He lost his keys.
On the other end of the line, the landlord tells him that it'll be twenty minutes, but then twenty minutes becomes forty minutes and forty minutes eases into an hour. It has been raining so hard that his fingers are wet and cold from holding the umbrella. His joints are stiff. He might be hungry.
The Tesserae Bar isn't far. Once inside, he slips immediately into the bathroom where he applies thick, black make-up around his eyes to blend in better with the clientele. In the main dining area, he orders an appetizer (chicken satay) and then sends it back (he cannot stomach meat tonight after all) and then orders a garish drink (something with melon and dry ice that curls like smoke) and keeps it. He sits at the bar, quiet and alone, his eyes shut to the crowd around him. He listens to the arena highlights, the sounds of fights and death pumped in through the speakers. With his eyes closed, he likes to imagine that his make-up makes him look like a skull.
What| An encounter.
Where| The Tesserae Bar.
When| Week 3.
Warnings/Notes| Will add as necessary.
He lost his keys.
On the other end of the line, the landlord tells him that it'll be twenty minutes, but then twenty minutes becomes forty minutes and forty minutes eases into an hour. It has been raining so hard that his fingers are wet and cold from holding the umbrella. His joints are stiff. He might be hungry.
The Tesserae Bar isn't far. Once inside, he slips immediately into the bathroom where he applies thick, black make-up around his eyes to blend in better with the clientele. In the main dining area, he orders an appetizer (chicken satay) and then sends it back (he cannot stomach meat tonight after all) and then orders a garish drink (something with melon and dry ice that curls like smoke) and keeps it. He sits at the bar, quiet and alone, his eyes shut to the crowd around him. He listens to the arena highlights, the sounds of fights and death pumped in through the speakers. With his eyes closed, he likes to imagine that his make-up makes him look like a skull.