The reek of alcohol falls about him as a mist follows rain. It's almost a mustiness, his scent permeating the café. Different than pure wine – aged – in a cask of another sort. Masculine. Annoying.
Non, monsieur, you are not to look at him. You know those tousled locks of hair and the beatific expression that he affects those few times that your eyes meet. You don't meet his eyes. Fear? If he knew that you did it not out of disgust like you pretend but shame, he would announce it to the world. Apollo Fallen.Gods above that name is hated. By the others it is a tease of what he says, but from the drunkard? It's almost the caress of a lover. He tastes the word, pronounces it, and that shiver crawls up your spine with the naked want…is that need in his eyes?He's fishing through kilometres of scorn for the jeweled drop of kindness locked into your heart, and you refuse to even consider that he may be alive, one of those abased that your life is sold to raise. You never think of him in need of the ABC, only in the terms that the ABC needs him To leave.
Yet those eyes that hold yours beg as if you were a lifeline to him. Most intentionally you let the rope fray with each tasted word of scorn. Shame, godling, to abandon the greatest of the abased to the worst of fate. Death is little to the power your glare commands.