Saturday Evening...

[dingdongdoodily]

Pickles had a fairly short day, all he had to do was record a few tracks for a new song, and hit the fashion consultant's to get his new wardrobe. He knew he'd be home before Miniver, so he picked up five good bottles of cognac, and set them aside, then practiced his drums for an hour, before settling down with a book, sprawled on the couch

Comments

[cheevy]

Miniver returns as expected, tumbling bac into the apartment dressed in stagehand-black with smudges of backstage dust on his clothing and a streak of black paint on one arm. He'd taken to wearing short sleeves to work, which showed the scars on his right arm. They'd earned him immediate intrigue points with the stagehands, more so because he'd been calculatedly cagey about how he got them. It made for that little extra boost that gave his other apparent eccentricities a kind of validity where he might otherwise come off as someone putting on a show.

"You home, Sean?" he calls over his shoulder as he locks the door.

[dingdongdoodily]

"Yep." The redhead called from the living room, finishing up the paragraph he'd been reading. "Cognac in the kitchen if you want some." He added, moving his legs so Miniver could sit down when he came in.

He'd had his hair put back into a ponytail as requested by the consultant, and was trying to get used to the feeling of tiny ropes wrapped around his head and pulled back.

[cheevy]

Cognac? Ooh, shiny. More than welcome after a day of scrambling around in the dark. He gets a glass of it, and wanders into the livingroom to flop onto the couch next to Pickles.

"Hey, sweets," he grins, leaning to give Pickles a light kiss. "How's tricks?"

[dingdongdoodily]

Oh, GREAT way to put that, Miniver!
"Errr. Well, got my new wardrobe, old one's all yers, dude. Oh yeah, and I been meanin' to tell you... I'm a dick. Like, an utter douchebag. Seriously. I already feel bad about it, and it took me a couple days to find a way to say it..."

He set down his book altogether and sat up, wrapping his arms around one leg, leaning against the back of the couch with his side. He felt itchy, awkward, and only a little ashamed. Not as much as he really should have, and he knew it, but he totally wasn't as apologetic as he felt he should be.

[cheevy]

...Okay, that's weird. That's sending something is more than usually off signals through his head. He takes a drink of the cognac and sets the glass aside.

"What is it?"