It seems like he's always coming in here in his pajamas.
One barefoot sex mage enters, dressed (indeed) in his old sushi boxers and CAFFEINE: fictional tour 2025 band t-shirt. Matt's hair is messier than usual, and he looks like he hasn't slept
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(He's on The Merchant of Venice now. He doesn't understand why it's included with the comedies; everyone seems sad about something.)
But man (or demon) cannot live by literature alone, which brings Rache shuffling to the bar himself.
"Tea for me also, please."
It takes him a moment to recognize just who ordered first.
"Hello."
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"Rache."
He sounds a little surprised, a little pleased, and somewhat ambushed.
"Hey, I was hoping to run into you."
(For the record, this is as far as his mental speech preparation has gotten.)
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Rache does not have a speech. He does, however, have a question.
"Who is Miss Callahan to you?"
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"She's."
Matt rubs one eye, turning on his stool to more fully face him. He shakes his head; all the sleep and the tea in the world couldn't prepare him to handle this elegantly, but they'd sure help.
"She's my girlfriend," he says, and winces. "I, um. I realize I should have told you that. Earlier. And with words."
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And he turns, already recognizing the voice.
"Sherlock," he says.
"Hey."
That Sherlock, hey is one part been awhile to two parts did we actually have sex or was that just a vivid and really exciting dream.
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"Oh, my God," he says dumbly.
His own fingers come up to ghost over Sherlock's, memories of touch returning; he's staring at him somewhere between delight and confusion and oh boy I am going to have to explain this to some people.
"... Hi," he concludes.
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