tell me about the boys are back in town 👁️ (also I hope youre doing well!)
(i hope you're doing well too!!) LOL, "the boys are back in town" is another WIP of me throwing my oc blorbos in a room together just to see what happens, in this case dirk (the king of rational thought and scientific inquiry) and henry (literally crafted his entire persona around the protagonist of a schlocky pulp fiction series...and that was BEFORE he found religion).
The wary look shifts to something more like puzzlement, although behind the lenses of the man's spectacles Henry can see twin sparks, dancing like fireworks atop the steely rings of gray: the pure and burning light of a piqued curiosity. “Your face seems…familiar to me, mein herr,” the man says slowly. “Have we met before?” Henry's smile grows into an outright grin. "Oh," he says, in the casually aloof tone that he's practiced before a mirror until his throat was sore, "I don't think so. I get that a lot." He reaches over to a nearby shelf (inwardly giddy that he should find himself in precisely the right section of the bookshop's haphazard wares) and runs his fingers along the spines before grasping one and lifting it to show off first the title – The Queen Dies Twice, by Syral Fannegon – and then the illustration beside the title page. The print depicts a man, lanky for a human but fit, with burnished auburn hair and rather sharp features that one might describe as “rakishly debonair”, adopting a protective, assertive stance: one hand holds his rapier aloft, while the other is flung to his side, defending the elven-looking (not to mention scantily-clad, in little more than a nightdress) lady beside him, whose hair shines star-bright as she holds aloft a glowing orb of thaumaturgic energy. Henry, of course, bears quite the resemblance to the man in the portrait. In fact, one could easily think them brothers, perhaps even twins, were it not for the streak of bone in his hair – and the more complex matter of his eyes, the ever-changing blooms of color as his irises flicker and swirl from deep indigo to copper-gold to rosy pink, and every shade of dusk and dawn between. Still, though, the rest of his face looks just like the book illustration (Henry had made sure, he'd practiced for weeks), surely – "No, that's not it," the spectacled man says, after giving The Queen Dies Twice no more than a dismissive glance. "I never read fiction." Henry nearly drops the book. "What?"