Wax

Forty Three

A/N: Omg omg omg omg the feeling of this chapter, if I were to use one word to describe it: mature. Just that. The entire chapter makes me feel like these two taste like the most expensive bottle of wine or something I don't know why but it was certainly the mood I was going for and I'm so sorry it took me some time to write this!

I actually already wrote part of the next chapter thinking I'd be including it here but LOL I wasn't going to cut the climax short just because I can't finish it on time so I decided that'll go up next week instead so that I don't leave you guys on a worse cliffhanger. 

Please enjoy! ^^ I hope the words take you elsewhere this time. This one's just really unique. I really adore this chapter. 

___________________________

[Leroy]

It wasn't the kind of bar he would have liked.

Or maybe over the years, my idea of what he 'liked' had, somewhere along the way, smudged and blurred along with those feelings; mere smoke among the clouds. The place was small, slightly out of the way but not too far from the hotel. The producer's party down by the docks on the other hand, must have been quite the walk.

There was something cheap about the handle under my grip as I was opening the door and the interior was nothing impressive—dimly lit, smelling vaguely of tobacco and beer. It wasn't the kind of place one would go to enjoy a nice glass of wine with live jazz playing in the background for some peace and quiet at the end of the week. The only thing that ticked any of those boxes was the quiet part, which made the search that much easier.

He was the only one sitting at the counter. And the only one without company on an evening in Portofino, known for its romantic views of the Ligurian sea. Come to think of it, I hadn't exactly seen all that. Or taken any pictures.

Seeing him alone from afar had me placing him in the middle of a busy table filled with seafood, cocktails, champagne, and laughter. It didn't suit him.

Seated on a bar stool, legs crossed, a glass of red between his fingertips and a gaze that looked as though he was watching the falling of snow—that alone was enough to raise the bar of any shady place. He looked unreal.

Like this was a dream, one of mine. The kind that would always end before the kiss.

I'd cross the room, testing the waters. Run my fingers along the surface, watch the ripples fade before making a move. In the dream, it'd always been easy.

Looking at him now, I could see the faintest shade of red brushing his nape even at a distance. Approaching made it clear as day and as soon as our eyes met, I could tell this was no touch-and-go. Standing a seat away would've suggested a short stay, filled mostly by his words and more listening than talking—a safer option that made temptation much, much easier to resist. So I sat carefully, leaving a seat between us.

The bartender stopped by for my order, asking what I will have. He spoke English; possibly inferring from my proximity to the only bar-seated guest, and that I'd come to be his companion for the night. That, too, wasn't something I could be sure about.

Until he spoke. "A glass of bourbon for him, signore," he raised his gaze from the wine glass between his fingertips. Slow. "Anything will do. And on the rocks, please."

It was what I would have said. He had it in him to remember stuff like that: things I once mentioned in passing, like the first dinner we had in a while, or over at his place for nights and days. Funnily enough, I could do the same for him.