[ It feels... really good, holding Roche's hand like that. Now, mind you—mind you, he's got a thing about hands as it is. It's kind of his thing, like how some guys like tits and some guys like ass and some guys like eyes or legs or shoulders or whatever. For him, it's hands. That other shit's good, too, yeah, but there's something really intimate and special to him about a person's hands. You can tell a lot by a person's hands. The shapes of their fingers, their callouses, the soft or rough quality to their skin and where. Roche has got rough hands that have done more than just their fair share of work. He's no boxer, like Rude, but he's got the burns and scars and callouses to tell Reno just how much he works with them everyday, uniform gloves and whatnot aside. And besides that, they're big fuckers, those hands. But with somewhat oddly long, lovely fingers, and would you look at that, no street-grime under his nails, filed more or less nice and neat. His hand fits nicely in Roche's.
He can feel his pulse pounding all the way from his throat to the vein in their hands and he wonders if Roche will notice.
All the way to their seat, that feeling he's now not entirely unfamiliar with persists, and he chooses to swallow it down by taking in the surroundings. This place is really something else. Someone like him, even if he were to drop his name and title, would never ordinarily be welcome here. It strikes him only as Roche is pulling his chair out a fundamental detail he'd sort of mentally skipped over: that this is all for him, tonight. Sure, there are other people here, and whatever, but this is really... for him. This night between the two of them, in this insanely gilded and high-society place, is supposed to be special. It's "just dinner," but Roche could've taken him anywhere for that. To Denny's, for all he fucking cares. He really arranged all this, just as a joke? Because he asked him to? Seriously?
There are all kinds of eyes on him as he takes a seat, and he's absolutely goddamn positive no one's ever pulled his chair out for him before, either. Reno opts to grin and find it funny, like this is all part of the big huge mockery they're making out of high society tonight, and it is. But also... he can't help realizing no one's ever treated him this way before. This is... fucking weird. ]
I sure hope you do. God—what the fuck? Look at this.
[ That diamond in Roche's pocket is seeming a whole lot less impressive when there are crystals inlaid in the silverware. The place setting in front of them is absolutely priceless, he's sure. The glass looks like it's made of moon gems or some fuckin' type of shit like that, filigreed in gold with a bold design. The goblets they're meant to drink out of are even nicer than the glass he smashed back in the limo, with sparkling facets and a hefty weight that makes him wonder if it isn't just made of diamond entirely. But the crystals sparkling in the handles of their utensils is really blowing his mind. ]
Are people really like this? Seriously? Is the food made outta crystals, too?
[ One of their many attendants comes to the table holding a fucking mindblowing bottle of what appears to be liquid gold and speaks total nosensewords, Armand de Brignac Midas? and then adds, champagne, sir, so Reno must look as clueless as he feels. Fuck, he's really out of his element here. ]
no subject
He can feel his pulse pounding all the way from his throat to the vein in their hands and he wonders if Roche will notice.
All the way to their seat, that feeling he's now not entirely unfamiliar with persists, and he chooses to swallow it down by taking in the surroundings. This place is really something else. Someone like him, even if he were to drop his name and title, would never ordinarily be welcome here. It strikes him only as Roche is pulling his chair out a fundamental detail he'd sort of mentally skipped over: that this is all for him, tonight. Sure, there are other people here, and whatever, but this is really... for him. This night between the two of them, in this insanely gilded and high-society place, is supposed to be special. It's "just dinner," but Roche could've taken him anywhere for that. To Denny's, for all he fucking cares. He really arranged all this, just as a joke? Because he asked him to? Seriously?
There are all kinds of eyes on him as he takes a seat, and he's absolutely goddamn positive no one's ever pulled his chair out for him before, either. Reno opts to grin and find it funny, like this is all part of the big huge mockery they're making out of high society tonight, and it is. But also... he can't help realizing no one's ever treated him this way before. This is... fucking weird. ]
I sure hope you do. God—what the fuck? Look at this.
[ That diamond in Roche's pocket is seeming a whole lot less impressive when there are crystals inlaid in the silverware. The place setting in front of them is absolutely priceless, he's sure. The glass looks like it's made of moon gems or some fuckin' type of shit like that, filigreed in gold with a bold design. The goblets they're meant to drink out of are even nicer than the glass he smashed back in the limo, with sparkling facets and a hefty weight that makes him wonder if it isn't just made of diamond entirely. But the crystals sparkling in the handles of their utensils is really blowing his mind. ]
Are people really like this? Seriously? Is the food made outta crystals, too?
[ One of their many attendants comes to the table holding a fucking mindblowing bottle of what appears to be liquid gold and speaks total nosensewords, Armand de Brignac Midas? and then adds, champagne, sir, so Reno must look as clueless as he feels. Fuck, he's really out of his element here. ]
Oh. Yeah, totally. We're celebratin', right?